Butterflies and Hurricanes
by Iced Blood
Summary: Part 20: Sirius Black is nothing if not unpredictable. Some might even say that's the whole point, the driving force, of his existence. Which might just explain what he's doing back in a classroom after so many years. and why he's trying to salvage something like a civil relationship with an old enemy: just to prove he can.
1. The Most Dangerous State of Mind

_**Good day to you. My name is Iced Blood, and I would like to welcome you to my new project.**_

_** Anyone who has read my previous works on this website will know that I used to hate the Harry Potter series. Well, the joke was on me. When I actually broke down to read J.K. Rowling's **_**magnum opus**_**, I found myself enthralled. I was sold completely within the course of the first book, and found myself more and more invested with each passing volume.**_

_** This project arose, like many of my previous stories, from a desire to dig deeper. I wanted to delve into the deepest parts of these characters and this world I've come to love. One character that I felt was sorely underutilized in the series was Sirius Black. I am given to understand that many fans agree with me.**_

_** Hence, this tale begins with him, sometime during the final events of volume five.**_

_** With that said, enjoy the ride.**_

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><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>It was stagnant.<p>

Stagnant, dusty, filled with blood. Of course, always blood. The walls were painted with it. His mother shrieked and waved about blood traitors whenever she had the chance, but what about traitorous blood? There was a tang in the air here, not just copper and sweat but something _dark. _Something like poison sludge working its way through cold, dead veins. Like larvae squirming through a corpse.

He felt it in this house; he was suffocating, he was _drowning_ in tainted blood. The Order wondered why he was so fixated on leaving. They constantly asked him why he couldn't just sit tight and do what he could in secret, why he couldn't just hold down the fort and quit taking so many foolish chances, trying to escape. They all needed him to stay out of sight. Why couldn't he see that? Why couldn't he be content with that?

Only part of it had to do with Snape's constant backhanded jabs. Only part of it had to do with being stuck safe in secrecy while the others risked their hides in open daylight. The fact that he had always been strong—always courageous, always willing to die for the cause—and now he was entirely unable to do it. And only part of it had to do with breaking out of prison after twelve years only to be stuffed right back into another.

Most of it…was the tainted blood.

If they just could have picked another place to make up headquarters, if he hadn't vastly underestimated the sheer level of hatred he had for these walls and these windows and these _damned_ portraits, he ventured to think that he would have been fine. Irritated, perhaps a touch stir-crazy, but generally all right. He would have found ways to make himself useful; he would have found time to enjoy himself in spite of the situation and been just fine with it because after over a decade in Hell, he deserved it.

But no. He was _here._

Here, knee-deep in treachery. Here, neck-deep in darkness.

He'd escaped one circle of Hell and traded it for a deeper one. The only thing worse than having no freedom was having the illusion of it. At least the former involved some form of certainty. He'd lived in a cell for so long, and he'd thought at one point during his sentence that living in a house again—even a house he hated—would have been beautiful by comparison. Downright enchanting. But the doors still couldn't open, not for him, and the only difference now was that they were unlocked.

It was more insulting than anything else.

Sirius, last heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, had been reduced to a shameful fugitive lost and forgotten in his own blood-spattered mansion. His most esteemed parents had had such hopes for him, such expectations, such otherworldly intentions. Oh, _yes,_ he'd been a talent. Magic flowed through him like water down the course of a river, and even as a boy he'd been _so _gifted. Magnificent. A man for the ages, a pillar of history.

And then…

"…Master is mumbling to himself again. He's mad. Master is tainting my mistress's house with madness. What's the great blood traitor doing, what's he doing in this room? Poor old Kreacher, what—"

"Oh, shut your flapping mouth, you senile old bat!" snarled the man who would have been a king, who would have been a _god,_ if not for the fact that he'd been cursed with a sane mind that recognized the truth behind this masquerade of nobility. What a cosmic joke. Sirius poured a smoking liquid from a bottle at his side into a tiny glass. Taking up that glass, which was dusty and dirty like everything else in this place—including its inhabitants—and staring at it with a bitter scowl, he slammed back the shot of Blishen's and felt it sear its way down his throat. It blossomed through his middle like an explosion of liquid sunlight, and he poured again.

The decrepit elf milled about the old study looking like a maggot taking a new path of evolution. Cold grey eyes watched it move about like those of the predator that slept deep within their owner's soul. A part of Sirius wondered why he didn't just put an end to the thing; it was Kreacher's most solemn desire to join his predecessors on the wall, and it wasn't like he took any particular joy in living anymore.

Come to think of it, Sirius found he rather related to the elf on that score.

He was not so much of a coward to commit suicide. But all the same, it was almost impossible to remember what it felt like to _enjoy _waking up in the morning anymore. He tried to remember how it had been when he was younger, full of that old teenage arrogance, swaggering about school without a care in the damned world. He tried to remember how it had felt to have a smile on his face at nearly every waking moment that _wasn't_ faker than a leprechaun's coin.

He couldn't.

So he drank.

It wasn't as though he had anything better to do.

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>At first, when he started seeing another person at random intervals during his aimless patrols through the halls of 12 Grimmauld Place, Sirius thought it was one of three things: one, he was hallucinating; two, a ghost had taken up residence—and wouldn't <em>that <em>be a sweet bit of irony?—and had finally chosen to reveal itself; three, another member of the Order of the Phoenix had come to keep tabs on him and wasn't nearly as good at stealth as they thought.

This last was the most comforting, and that made it the least likely in Sirius's opinion. More likely it was the first. After all, hadn't he always suspected this house of sucking the sanity out of its dwellers? Why _shouldn't _he be seeing random apparitions in every hazy, dusty shadow? There was a romantic sort of beauty to it, really, and at the moment he was just drunk enough to appreciate it. He even managed a little laugh as he walked, and tipped an invisible hat when he saw it the next time, next to a bare coatrack nestled in an abandoned corner. If he'd been sober, Sirius might have wondered why he even bothered with coatracks; nobody stayed long enough to bother taking off a coat, and even if someone had, it seemed a distant bit of folly to bother. After all, the point was the keep the place clean and orderly.

And 12 Grimmauld Place hadn't been clean _or _orderly in over a decade.

Sirius ignored the apparition, at least at first. The steel in him, buried deep within him where even Dementors couldn't penetrate, refused to allow him to give up what remained of his sanity. Not after all that he'd been through in a life that felt increasingly disjointed from itself, as though he were an observer of someone else's existence; someone who looked suspiciously like himself, but was entirely too gaunt and disheveled. Sirius had always been rather proud of his appearance. Whenever he looked in a mirror these days, a part of him insisted that he was looking at a piece of particularly grim artwork.

Eventually, though, he started actively _looking_ for the ghost/hallucination whenever he patrolled. It had become an event, a silent companion. Whenever Sirius stopped to think about how pathetic it was that he was now reduced to relying on a mental dislodging for company, he fell back on an old friend for support: good old Bleshin. He'd never had much of a taste for Firewhisky until about six months ago. These days, however, he'd come to lean on the blaze-and-bloom haze to keep the voices of the Order out of his traitorous ears.

_"Unlike you, I do not have unlimited leisure time."_

_ "It's not down to you to decide what's good for Harry!"_

_ "Master was a nasty ungrateful swine who broke his mother's heart."_

Sirius sighed heavily, hating himself as he fished a flask out of his pocket and took a long draw, knowing better than anyone that he was turning into a right sloppy mess; if he didn't take control of himself soon, he might well end up…well…

"Nearing the point I'd rather let them catch me," the former heir to the Noble and Most Ancient Whatever muttered under his breath, as if he could keep his words from the walls themselves, "just so things might get a _bit _more interesting."

He knew he was in a bad way when he realized just how tantalizing that idea was.

Sirius sought out the shadow, the stranger without a face, and found it lurking on the second floor next to a closet. "I'm going mad," he stated matter-of-factly, stopping in the hallway like he thought the thing would answer him. "I'm out of Azkaban, my name's been cleared for anyone that's worth a damn, and I can _feel _my brain slipping out of my own head. Half-expect it to fall right out of my ears and splatter all over the floor." He drew from the flask again, then stuffed it back into his pocket with an angry jerk. "I'm pathetic."

The shadow-ghost didn't vanish like it usually did, didn't fade into the wall to find its next haunt. It stayed there, and Sirius could somehow sense that it was watching him. He wondered absurdly if hallucinations had eyes, and his hand went for his wand. His instincts weren't entirely gone, and if there was one thing Sirius Black had always been—regardless of anything his tainted blood and lack of sobriety had to say on the matter—it was quick on the draw.

And then he dropped it. His entire body went stiff—and his scattered mind regained its focus out of shock—when he heard a voice, smooth and dark and tinged with laughter, say:

_ "…I know. Why else would I be here?"_


	2. Kafell

_**Thanks to everyone who read and responded to my first chapter. This is a decidedly new sort of project for me; not only is it my first project for a new series for several years, it is the first work of prose I've ever written for a book series.**_

_** These first couple of chapters will serve to set the stage, as well as establish **_**when **_**this story will be happening, and what it will do. This is an AU story, and one of my personal rules when dealing with a divergence from canon is establishing when the fork appears in the road.**_

_** I hope that you enjoy this chapter.**_

_** Have fun.**_

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><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>"You seem to be taking this rather stoically."<p>

Sirius shrugged, unconcerned and feeling rather unsurprised. Why not? It was as likely a thing to happen as any. Apparition was a common enough skill, and anyway, he was likely to embrace any change in the status quo right now, if for no better reason than to break the monotony. He didn't care if he was going insane right now. He didn't care if this man—if that indeed was what he _was_—was a friend or a threat. What did it matter?

"I gave up trying to make sense of this house when I was fourteen," Sirius muttered.

The apparition was sitting across from him, lounging easily as if he/it owned the place. And honestly, if he/it wanted, Sirius was apt to give it away. It mattered little enough to him. He wasn't even sure if he could say that his new companion was wearing clothes, exactly. It seemed more accurate to say that he/it was wearing dust and shadows. His/its body was wrapped in—

"What should I call you?" Sirius asked suddenly, exasperated by his own thoughts.

A nondescript head tilted to one side, as the dust-ghost seemed to ponder this question. Sirius figured he may as well have asked when its birthday was. Shadows didn't have names. Certain _ghosts_ had names—that much was true—but then Sirius figured that any ghost haunting _this _place would have long since forgotten it.

"…Call me Kafell," said the dark voice.

"Kafell," Sirius repeated, frowning. "All right, then, Kafell. The next question I feel obligated to ask—and you honestly needn't answer because I don't really care—but why are you here?" He was supposed to be guarding the Order's headquarters, after all, and unfortunately Bleshin hadn't quite helped him to forget it yet. He supposed he should at least put up a pretense of loyalty. Fat lot of good it had done him so far.

Kafell chuckled again. "My, my. Master Black, if I didn't know better, I would say you are feeling rather…left out of your own organization." He—Sirius decided it would be simpler just to assign a gender based upon what evidence he had; the voice—spoke in an unfamiliar accent. "So left out that you are willing to converse with a creature like me?"

"Fitting," Sirius growled. "We're all creatures, here."

Kafell laughed. It was a strong laugh, deep and honest, and it rang through the halls. Sirius expected to hear his mother now, taking the excuse to rant a while about the reasons he was a disgrace to the family; he thought the list was hovering somewhere around nine-hundred now. Sirius had contemplated writing them down and making a poster of them, one night when he'd been so sloshed that he'd forgotten what sleep was. "Clever, Master Black!" declared Kafell, holding his sides. "Clever and sad. Quite sad. _That _is another reason I am here."

"Is that right?" Sirius asked. He forewent the glass this time and took a swig of Firewhisky straight from the bottle. As an afterthought, he offered it to Kafell, pointing the neck at him with a half-raised eyebrow. Kafell shook his head. "Here to make me laugh and dance and find the meaning of life again, are you?"

"Not…in so many words," the shadow without a face murmured. Normally, Sirius might have been put off by talking to a man who had no facial features. Kafell stood up, and Sirius pointedly did _not_ reach for his wand. Thin hands appeared out of the shadows that looked like robes, reached up, and pulled the darkness away from his head like it was a cowl.

A head emerged, and Sirius had a moment where he thought Kafell might have read his mind. The apparition was pale, but not translucent like Sirius would have thought. Equally pale brown hair was slicked back against his skull, cut at his jawline. As his most unusual companion turned to the side, Sirius saw a streak of shock white running from Kafell's right temple, right down to the tips. Kafell was smirking, but it didn't feel like the expression Sirius was used to seeing. It felt…honest. It wasn't a bitter smirk, or a sarcastic smirk, but it was too sharp to be a smile, too severe to be a grin.

"So what _are _the words?" Sirius asked.

"You wouldn't be able to pronounce them," Kafell muttered. "All this gratuitous Latin you Brits sling around. It's rather crass, if you ask me. But…results. I suppose." He shook his pale head. "But never mind. I _am, _in fact, here for a purpose, Master Black."

"Beautiful," Sirius replied, and it was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic. "Mind filling me in, then?"

"Impatient to be rid of me? That's rather surprising."

Sirius drew from his bottle and stood up. "I never was able to stay interested in one thing for very long," he said.

Kafell regarded him silently for a moment. Then he swept off his dust-shadow robes and tossed them into the air, where they hung suspended as though being held out by another person for him to beat clean. Underneath the shimmering, barely-there robes, Kafell seemed to be wearing a Muggle suit, but like the robes it didn't really look like cloth. It looked like ink. As black as midnight, except for the tie, which was a too-bright red that seared into Sirius's eyes like liquid fire.

"Take a look at this," Kafell said, gesturing.

As his hand unfurled toward his discarded but suspended robes, an image began to appear within them. Sirius realized with a jolt that he was looking at his godson. Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived, only child of James and Lily Potter.

The only reason Sirius was putting up with this insanity in the first place.

Harry looked to be taking an exam, an O.W.L. unless Sirius missed his guess. The boy also looked to be falling asleep. Sirius found a smile as he watched his godson's head slump down upon his desk, then jerk back up before it struck the wooden surface. He wiped his eyes, took up his quill, and wrote a line or two onto his parchment.

"Studious," noted Kafell dryly. "So dedicated to his studies, in fact, that he seems overwhelmed by them." The pale man chuckled. "Ah, well. Not all were born to excel in academia. I daresay he's proven himself more than once to be quite effective when it comes to practical skills." Kafell glanced at Sirius and winked. "Wouldn't you say, Master Black?"

"What's this about, Kafell?" Sirius demanded, suddenly far less amused by this stranger. "Do you often go infiltrating people's houses to show them their…" He stopped, blinking. "…Relatives?"

Kafell chuckled. "You were about to say 'children,' weren't you?" He looked back at the robe, and at Harry, who had fallen asleep. "You think of him as your own, don't you, Master Black? Strictly speaking, I suppose he _is._ Godfather, guardian. And you _are _the last Black heir, after all, aren't you? Were you to die, the Black legacy would rest with young Master Potter, wouldn't it?" Kafell gestured all around him, that half-smirk on his face again. "All…this. His."

Sirius scowled. "A threat, is it?"

"Threat?" Kafell repeated. "No such thing, Master Black. I assure you, if I wanted you dead, I would have killed you long before allowing you to see me." He winked again. "I don't subscribe to making the victim suffer. I am no such sadist."

"Glorious."

"What I am," Kafell continued, "is here to help you. You see, Master Black, it saddens me to watch a Gryffindor like yourself kept locked in such a dank place." He chuckled again. "A Slytherin could perhaps take refuge in a place like this. But you? Courageous, loyal, powerful? What a waste of resources."

"I agree," Sirius growled.

"And considering the state of affairs in the…wizarding world, is that what you're calling it now? It would be most prudent for all involved if such a man as yourself were permitted to _use _his talents. Particularly in relation to…"

Sirius flinched violently as the vision of Harry in Kafell's robes collapsed to the floor of the Great Hall and started to scream.

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

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><p>"What the hell <em>is <em>this?" Sirius demanded, and made the singular mistake of reaching out and taking hold of Kafell's suit, thinking in some detached way of threatening the man regardless of the fact that he was barely coherent enough to _stand_, let alone attack anyone. A fierce shock of cold went down his arm and through his entire body, then heat like sun-fire blasted him backward, sending him crashing to the floor. He lay flat on his back, stunned and sore and feeling like his hand was simultaneously frozen and melting.

"Hmmm…" Kafell murmured thoughtfully. "I suppose I might have warned you about touching me." He bowed deeply. "I apologize profusely, Master Black."

Sirius scrambled to his feet, his face flushed with equal parts shame and fury. "Piss on your apologies, you damned lunatic! What's this about? And what does it have to do with Harry?"

Kafell didn't show the barest sign of surprise or irritation at Sirius's sudden change in attitude. Smiling serenely, he said, "You _must _know by now, Master Black, that your dearest godson has…visions from time to time. Visions of what his enemy is seeing, and doing." Kafell checked his left wrist as if for a watch that Sirius could not see. "If I've calculated correctly, then young Master Potter's current vision has to do with…" He glanced up at Sirius. "…You."

"What?" Sirius asked, stiffening. "Me?"

"Yes, yes," Kafell said, chuckling as he nodded absently. "Quite the ploy. Master Riddle always _was _fascinating. But then…well, I suppose you could say that I've lost my taste for him. Lord Voldemort." The name slid from his mouth like a squirming insect he found particularly revolting. He shook his head and returned his attention to Sirius, pointedly ignoring the vision of Harry still present in his suspended cloak. Sirius watched as his godson was led through the halls of Hogwarts by an elderly wizard, most likely toward the Hospital Wing. "But _you _now…" Kafell said, and the last Black flinched violently, which was apparently highly amusing, "Master Black, _you _are…a differentmatter entirely."

"What are you raving about, man? _What _ploy?"

"Master Riddle has _sent _a vision to young Master Potter, you see," said Kafell, sounding thoroughly delighted, "and it is but a fabrication. You see the genius of it? Especially considering that now, thanks to your most esteemed servant…" He seemed to catch himself, and Sirius wondered for a moment what he could possibly have meant by that. "I get ahead of myself," Kafell said. "He hasn't yet attempted to contact you. That comes later."

"You can see the future, can you?" Sirius asked skeptically.

Kafell shrugged. "That _is _the closest you could come to describing it using your language. Yes, Master Black, I suppose that I _can _see the future."

Sirius's scowl deepened. "So, is that why you're here, Kafell?" He doubted that was this specter's real name. "Tell me how it turns out? Tell me how I'm going to die, is that it?"

Kafell raised an eyebrow. "No. That is…not permitted. Unfortunately, I do not suppose that what I _am _intending to do is strictly legal, either. In any case…let us gather ourselves, shall we? I suppose I should explain."

He sat down and flipped a hand.

Bare moments later, Kreacher came waddling in holding a tray. Atop it were a steaming kettle, two cups, a jug, and a bowl of sugar. "Kreacher is bringing refreshments," the elf declared under his breath, with a much more pleasant tone than usual. "Kreacher has tea, and milk, and sugar for Master and his guest." He set the tray down on an end-table at Kafell's left hand.

"Many thanks," Kafell offered with surprising sincerity. "I'm quite parched. Most excellent." He flipped a hand again—it seemed deliberate, because it was the precise movement he'd used to apparently summon Kreacher—lifted one of the cups, and Sirius blinked with surprise when he realized that it was filled with hot tea, despite his never even touching the kettle. He'd never, to his recollection, seen magic performed quite so easily _or _so quietly.

"Would Master like tea?" Kreacher grumbled politely, and Sirius noticed with yet another jolt of surprise that the elf's towel was immaculately clean, and his appearance—such as it was—was actually rather…impressive.

"N-No," Sirius said. "No, Kreacher, that's…quite all right." He raised the bottle of Bleshin's to his lips, then sneered and tossed it aside. Kreacher caught it and carried it away, bowing as he did so. "So…Kafell. You were going to explain."

Kafell nodded, sipping at his tea. He set the cup aside after a moment. "Indeed. You see…I cannot tell you _how, _or _when, _you are going to die. But I _can _tell you that you will die _soon. _Thanks in no small part to the rather foolhardy arrogance that seems to plague all powerful people," he added as an afterthought. "The one called Albus Dumbledore. Your dearest godson. Yourself."

Sirius thought that he might have been offended, if he hadn't spent so much time over the past few months staring deep into the darkest parts of himself and acknowledging that they existed. "Arrogance," he murmured tonelessly

"Mm." Kafell smirked. "For example, you might well wish to treat your servant better than you have been." He raised an eyebrow. "I believe you have been warned about that, and I further believe I have just shown you that the alternative is...preferable. But I suppose it's not my place to criticize you. Truth be told, I often find myself guilty of that selfsame arrogance. So, never mind. With luck, any damage caused by such a trivial situation will soon be…rectified."

"Being your captivated audience is fine enough," said Sirius, growing annoyed, "as I've been bored beyond all recognition of humanity lately. But I wonder when you intend to start talking sense."

"You were always clever about your studies," Kafell offered. "Finding the right notes to copy, devising the most fascinating methods to cheat. Tell me, Master Black: in all that time, did you ever learn the properties of the…Time-Turner, I believe it's called?"

Sirius blinked. "…Yes?"

He'd never known a person to own or to even _use _a Time-Turner, not from his past, but he did recall that they were immensely powerful artifacts, able to turn back time and space itself to send their users into the past. Hermione Granger, he remembered, had used one during her third year at Hogwarts to attend several more classes than usual. The devices were strictly regulated, and only permitted under the rarest, most heavily moderated of circumstances.

"Do you know that there is a limit to its power?" Kafell asked. Sirius blinked again and shook his head. He didn't. He knew that there _must _be, of course, but this man seemed to know more. "It can only turn back a certain amount of time, of course. And to affect the future takes much in the way of effort. Time is a ravenous beast, you understand, and it does not permit meddling. It does all that it can to prevent such things."

"…Harry and one of his friends used one to save my neck two years back," Sirius felt compelled to say.

"Indeed," Kafell said, nodding. "One could say, though, that that was _meant _to occur. What _I _intend to have happen is…most assuredly not. But then, that is why we are decidedly lucky that I do not intend to _use _a Time-Turner. I intend to bypass its rather pedestrian limitations."

"What _are _you, Kafell?" Sirius asked.

Kafell chuckled again. "Your race would call me a 'magical creature with near-human intelligence.'" He winked conspiratorially at Sirius. "Allow me to inform you of a secret, however. I…" He seemed to grow several inches taller, and Sirius blinked again, and reached for Firewhisky that wasn't there anymore, "…possess a power the likes of which you witches and wizards could not conceive of replicating. Do not deign to hold to the laughable delusion that humans are at the top of the…ahem…food chain. You are most assuredly not."

"I gathered that," Sirius muttered. "And anyway, I gave up the idea of human superiority the day Peter Pettigrew…" He stopped, growled incoherently, and shook his head. "Arrogance does not become me anymore. I assure you."

Kafell nodded. "Good. You've proven yourself quite…capable, then. Allow me to inform you of my plan."

* * *

><p><em><strong>I know that things are going a bit slow right now; I beg forgiveness and patience. I'm new to writing Harry Potter fiction, and I'm still feeling my way around and figuring out what works and what doesn't. I want to make sure that I do this story the right way, and that it's worth reading for you all.<strong>_

_** I'll see you next time, when Kafell establishes the reason for his own existence.**_

_** Sort of.**_


	3. The Future that Hasn't Happened Yet

_**Thanks to those who have expressed their interest in this story. I won't deny that I'm nervous about this one, as it's been a long time since I've written for a new series, and I have a very strange relationship with it.**_

_** I feel I should apologize for the fact that the characters so far haven't been very…British. I admit, I'm American. Yes, typical ignorant American, with no real idea of how to express things in any way but my own. I felt it would be more respectful to stick to my own style, rather than attempt a butchery of Rowling's.**_

_** I don't feel comfortable writing things I don't understand, and the ins and outs of English culture definitely fall under that particular category.**_

_** That said, let's head back to Grimmauld Place and see how things are progressing, shall we?**_

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><p>He didn't trust Kafell.<p>

Being the final true heir of the Noble and Most Arrogant House of Black, Sirius—the third of his name—was hardly stupid enough to take the word of something that could only be logically described as an immensely powerful ghost. The more he saw of this creature, the less he liked. It was the general shape of a tall human man, certainly, but its clothing was in direct opposition to normal, and this coming from perhaps the most _abnormal _wizard to be born in recent centuries. The edges were not edges at all, but seemed to crackle with some sort of energy. Only its head, hair, and hands looked human, although even they looked entirely too pale.

Kafell sat on one of the chairs in Sirius's private study, which amounted to a stripped-bare room with no honest indication that anyone even visited it, and Sirius often spent the majority of his time there. Sirius attempted, through an alcohol-induced stupor that was still causing his thoughts to swim through his head like half-dead fish, to determine what it was about this…man…that bothered him so much.

He was condescending, for one. He lounged about like he thought he was some breed of god, he had a certain all-encompassing smugness that made Sirius think that he was too damned smart for his own good, and…

_He's…just like me, _Sirius thought with a sudden lurch. _This was…me. When I was still in school._

The last Black could still remember, if he focused hard enough, what things had been like back at Hogwarts. It had been a lifetime ago, but he could still remember, though it came in hazes that made Kafell's smoke-and-whisper cloak seem clear as summer daylight. He could still see himself, long black hair framing a strong, handsome face in the latest Muggle style; eyes dark and sparkling with constant amusement; a thin mouth curved in a smirk that was so fundamentally contemptuous that it was impossible to tell that he _wasn't _a typical Black. He could still picture himself, walking with such swaggering confidence, as though he owned not just the school, but all of Britain.

Kafell was watching his cloak again. He pointed to it. "You see there? Look how concerned young Master Potter is." Sirius turned and watched. His godson was shouting at his friend, Hermione Granger. "Almost terrified, I daresay. Yes, yes, it's beginning."

Kafell flipped a hand again, and suddenly they could _hear_ what was happening at Hogwarts. "...they're _real, _Hermione! Sirius is trapped, I've _seen _him, Voldemort's got him and no one else knows! And that means we're the only ones who can _save him!"_

"What?" Sirius asked. "What's he…? No one's _got _me. Unless the Dark Lord's got a new face." He scowled and narrowed his eyes at Kafell, who looked thoroughly amused. "Have anything to say to me, Kafell?"

Kafell's eyebrows raised again. "Oh, but that _would _be a fine trick, considering you've a Secret-Keeper of quite considerable power keeping Master Riddle from finding you." He winked. "But as I've said, Master Black, I've grown tired of these wizarding wars. I think I've found a way to circumvent many of the mistakes made on your organization's part. That is the final reason that I have shown myself to you."

There was a rather heavy, humid silence, and Sirius was almost positive that Kafell had just lied through his pale teeth.

"Listen, Harry," Hermione was saying, "we need to establish whether Sirius really _has _left headquarters—"

"I've told you, I _saw...!"_

"And what does this have to do with me, or a Time-Turner?"

Kafell smiled, and this time it _wasn't _a smirk. This time it was honestly pleasant. "Well, now. Here's the thing, Master Black. You know, of course, that when Master James Potter and his lovely wife were...taken, Albus Dumbledore was quite quick to place an impressive protective spell about the home of the boy's last living blood relatives."

Sirius flinched as Harry snarled: "Sirius is being tortured _now!"_

Kafell flipped his hand, and the room fell into silence again. "That is the crux of everything," he said. "The Dursley family is most unreliable. What we need—what _I _need," he amended quickly, "is for the young one to have a family willing to tell him. Willing to _teach_ him. He's powerful, young Master Potter, but thoroughly unrefined. Most of his triumphs have been as a result of luck shining on him. I despise luck. I prefer...preparation."

Sirius leaned back in his chair. "What, you're going to go back in time? Stop Dumbledore from giving Harry to his aunt and uncle? You won't hear any complaint from me. The great sniveling idiots haven't done anyone any favors."

Kafell's grin widened. "I thought you would say that. Excellent."

"What's this got to do with me?" Sirius asked for what felt like the seventieth time.

"Well, now," Kafell continued, unabashed, "I _could _enter into the past myself, but...no. I feel there is a better choice. May I show you something?" He winked, and flipped his hand again. Always, the same precise gesture, the same exact placement. The shimmering image in Kafell's cloak vanished, replaced by another.

It was Harry still, but now he sat in his dormitory, on his bed. There was something about his face that felt..._wrong _to Sirius. It was a face he recognized far better than his own. It was the face of James, a man that was more a brother to Sirius than Regulus had ever been, the man who had saved him from nearly every hellish thing he'd ever experienced at the malignant hands of his family, and there was one thing Sirius had never seen on that face.

He realized that he was seeing it now, on the face of that brother's son.

Grief.

Grief, and madness.

Tears streaked down that face as Harry's vibrant green eyes went wide with sudden, psychotic hope. He was holding something in his hands, trembling hands that looked so much like claws. It was a mirror. The mirror Sirius remembered giving him at Christmas. It was the only means of reliable communication he could afford to give his godson, and it was now that he wondered with a jolt why Harry hadn't bothered to use it the _last _time he'd needed to talk. When he'd wanted to know—

Kafell flipped his hand again, and Sirius heard his godson's voice, racked with pain and sorrow and stark raving madness: "Sirius!" Tears had sprung from his eyes again as he called, almost _shrieked_ for his godfather, and without thinking Sirius lurched over to the small table at his right hand and snatched up the partner to the mirror in Harry's white-knuckled, strangling hands.

He saw nothing.

He didn't see Harry; he didn't see himself.

He saw...well, he wasn't sure _what _to call the horrifying visage looking back at him.

His head snapped up, and he glared at Kafell. "What's this?" he demanded.

"As you mentioned, Master Black," Kafell said, gesturing to the cloak's image, "I can see the...future. I am simply permitting _you_ to see it as well."

"_Sirius!" _Harry sobbed.

"What...what's going on?" Sirius asked, more slowly, through clenched teeth.

"I said before that you will die soon." The apparition gestured. "I am simply showing you...the aftermath."

"_Sirius Black!"_

Sirius felt a knife stab into his heart with each syllable as his godson—the only reason his miserable excuse for a life was even worth anything anymore—cried out for him. Begged for him. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. "...Beautiful," he growled.

"I simply wished for you to know," said Kafell, "how much your dearest godson loves you, Master Black. I want you to understand that however miserable you might feel, however useless you might believe yourself to be in your current situation, your existence has a deep, intrinsic value. And it is to this boy." He gestured. "The Boy who Lived."

"Oh, was this supposed to lift my spirits?" Sirius snapped.

"Not at all," Kafell said with a chuckle. "It was to redouble your willingness to take part in this experiment of mine. You see..._I _might be able to enter the past and...fix things. But it would afford me a much greater amount of reliability if I were to send someone else." His eyes were twinkling. "Someone like...you."

"Are you..." Sirius blinked. "What are you..._me?"_

Kafell's smile turned serene. "Of course, Master Black. Who better? James and Lily Potter appointed you to the task, after all. While Albus Dumbledore may have thought to do young Master Potter a kindness by his spell-work on the Dursleys' home, I personally believe it was much more a blunder than anything else. I believe, Master Black, that _you _can fix these blunders. Any number of them. And I believe that _you _will have more reason than anyone else to do the job correctly."

"Job," Sirius replied, in a soft voice; he wasn't sure what he was saying or hearing anymore.

"Being a godfather isn't as simple as the Order of the Phoenix has apparently forced it to become," Kafell said. "You've not been given the proper chance to fill the void your friends appointed you to fill. Your job was not to support Harry Potter, Master Black. Your job was to _raise _him."

And a sudden wild blaze of…_something _shot through the drunken stupor and blazed into Sirius's eyes. He leapt to his feet. "What are you saying, Kafell?" He scarcely dared to believe it. He beat down the savage hope that welled up in him, unwilling to let it rise. Not until…until…

Kafell looked positively fatherly; his eyes crinkled with his wide, toothy grin.

"…I am offering you, Master Black, the chance to deliver to your godson the life he deserves."

* * *

><p><em><strong>I'm sure the direction this plot is heading has been trod so many times that it's long since past clichéd. I'll admit that I've never really read HP fanfiction, and made a point to avoid it in order to keep this story…pure, so to speak.<strong>_

_** So I apologize if you've all seen this before; I do hope that my particular take on it is interesting, and entertaining.**_

_** 'Til next time.**_


	4. A Life Worth Losing

_**It has been mentioned again that the pacing is slow. I know it is, and I apologize for it. When I wrote this, I was exploring. Figuring out exactly what I was going to do with this idea of mine, how I might make it distinct and unique from the myriad other "Sirius-saves-Harry" scenarios that I'm sure are out there.**_

_** That is why I'm spending so much time setting everything up. I want the rules of the game to make sense. I want you, who are reading this, to understand what I'm doing so as to keep me in line. I've done time travel before, but this is the first time it's been this easy. But just because it's easy doesn't mean I can't make mistakes.**_

_** So I hope you'll forgive the pacing for now, while I get my bearings.**_

_** This is still a new world for me.**_

* * *

><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>"Did…did you just say…? <em>How…?"<em> Sirius stammered as he struggled to remember which words went in which order. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He didn't _dare _believe what he was hearing. Kafell, for his part, was looking as contented—and predatory—as a cat with bits of mouse in its teeth. Sirius couldn't bring himself to treat this like a real situation. How could he? Even in the wizarding world, such a stunt would be…would be…

"Now, now, Master Black," Kafell chuckled, "what did I tell you about that human arrogance? Please, don't think of me in the same vein as your kind. Your witches and your wizards. Yes, they have power. _Great_ power, when the mood suits them. But I am quite removed from such things, I assure you."

Sirius said, "I'm not so sure I can believe anything you've shown me, to say nothing of what you've _told _me. I'm sure you understand."

Kafell shrugged, still looking smug and amused. "Quite expected, actually. Always a shrewd sort of man, weren't you, Padfoot?" Sirius wasn't sure if it was an insult or not, hearing that old name used by this creature. "I suppose you have a point. I'm sure that if I put my mind to it," he paused as if he didn't know if "mind" was the right word, "I could do a better job of convincing you. That is, unfortunately, unimportant. What _is _important is…what else I can do. For you, for your godson. For the wizarding world. I cannot very well do this on my own, because certain people would take notice. I am taking a great risk in simply appearing before you today. All things considered, they—by which I suppose I mean _it—_" Kafell looked amused again, "will not notice you."

"Why is that?" Sirius asked.

Kafell laughed. "Again with that adorable arrogance. Master Black, imagine if two creatures were trespassing on your property today. And imagine if one of them were…Severus Snape, perhaps, and the other happened to be a particularly daring cockroach. Which would you notice more readily?"

"…Snape," Sirius admitted, the fact not lost on him that Kafell seemed to be calling him a pest. "But I would grind either beneath my shoe, if it came down to it. So it seems to me that you are placing me in danger by making this offer. Am I mistaken in thinking that these people you are avoiding will not…step on me, if they notice?"

"I am confident they would," said Kafell. "But then…haven't you been _looking_ for a bit of danger in your life, Master Black?"

Sirius found that he couldn't argue with that point, and he also couldn't deny that a certain level of that old apprehension-tinged excitement—the same feeling that had accompanied every illegal excursion he'd ever had with James and the others—had risen up in his chest, causing a bloom of beautiful heat inside him that the Firewhisky couldn't touch. He leaned forward. "Details," Sirius growled.

Kafell laughed. "Very well, then!" He stood up. "Have you ever used a Pensieve?" Sirius shook his head. He'd heard of the devices, but he'd never seen one personally. "Well, if you understand the nature of the magic, then that is how we shall begin." The spirit held out a hand, one finger extended, and began to make a circular motion with it as if stirring the air. As he did so, the world itself distorted until it seemed to thicken, and Kafell's finger actually _had _begun to stir it.

"…I am to…?"

Kafell scanned Sirius's face, looking amused again, and he said, "If you can find yourself able to trust me, then your next move is to enter this gateway." He gestured to the swirling thick air with his other hand. "Step inside, Master Black, and we will begin. A simple enough request, wouldn't you think? But then, it still hinges on my integrity, doesn't it?" He shrugged. "To my sensibilities, you haven't much to lose. But then, you are not me. That is, perhaps, your greatest blessing."

Sirius watched the swirling air as Kafell continued to stir it, wondering. He had often learned that old lesson that if something seemed too good to be true, it _was. _He'd been entirely too excited at his own genius when he'd considered making Peter Pettigrew, the fat little man his best friend's wife had nicknamed "Wormy," the Secret-Keeper for their Fidelius charm. And look at what had happened _then._

"There is one important distinction," said Kafell moments later, and Sirius flinched. _"I_ have never deigned to call you friend."

"You…can read my…?"

That wide, toothy grin again. "So naïve. It's almost cute."

A part of him was entirely unsurprised. The rest of him came to grips with the realization that it didn't matter who—or what—this man was. Enough of Sirius's old arrogance remained for him to think that no enemy would ever be so transparent, that no one who honestly meant him harm would be nearly as open and obvious about it. The story was too ridiculous, the plot too obvious.

And so he did something that he never would have done if he'd been anywhere else but Grimmauld Place. He did something he never would have done if he'd been sober.

He stood up, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the vortex.

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>Sirius stood in front of a door that belonged to a house which felt more like home than 12 Grimmauld Place ever would. Instantly, his breath caught in his throat, but it was a jarring sensation when he realized that he was <em>actually <em>breathing quite steadily. His body was moving of its own accord. He had no control over it. Sirius tried to turn, to look at the town where this little haven rested; he wanted to see Godric's Hollow, he wanted to make sure. His muscles would not oblige. His neck did not obey him when he told it—willed it, he supposed—to twist. His eyes remained fixed on the painfully familiar door. His heart beat far slower, far calmer, than he thought it should.

He watched, thoroughly confused, as his hand rose without his permission and curled into a loose fist, rapping his knuckles on the door to announce his quiet arrival. One, two. Pause. One, two, three. Pause. One.

A voice that constricted his throat—although it really didn't; he just thought it _should_—came through the door after he'd lowered his arm: _"Who goes there?"_

Lily Evans had always been the sort to see the best in everyone, and of every situation. That had not changed when she'd become Lily Potter. If anything, her conviction of optimism had only been strengthened by James's influence. After all, had he not proven the theory when they'd left school? It hadn't taken long for him to convince her to date him, considering she'd thoroughly hated him all through their years at Hogwarts.

And so she'd taken the "going into hiding" idea and made it into something entertaining. She liked the security games, the sharp questions and the secretive voices. It often lifted everyone's spirits, including but not limited to the four-man gang from school she'd once so detested. No one was permitted to be unhappy in Lily's company, even now. Even with a price on her head. Even with mortal danger overshadowing her entire family.

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Left-Out-Here-Because-It's-Too-Bloody-_Cold!_" came a sarcastic, disdainful voice from his own lips that Sirius could not remember for the life of him. "Open the door, Evans!"

_"It's not that easy, and you know it," _Lily said from behind the door.

Sirius felt his eyes roll. "Fine. Do it. Quickly!"

He could _hear _her smiling, and he could(n't) feel his heart speed up. _"What was the first thing you said to me when you found out I was Head Girl?"_

"'…God help us all, the one badge wasn't good enough,'" Sirius recited. "'If you try to make me cut my hair again, I swear on my mother's grave—as soon as I finish digging it—that I'll shear _your_ pretty head bald while you sleep.'"

The door opened, and Sirius was staring into a pair of vibrant, bright emeralds that he barely recognized. It took him a long moment to fully remember that this was the woman from whom his godson had inherited his own eyes. Her red hair was messy in an innately attractive way; he'd long been somewhat jealous of James. Lily Evans had always been beautiful, and the fact that she was now in hiding and unable to pay as much attention to her appearance as she would have liked seemed to highlight that fact, rather than detract from it.

"Are you still wearing that thing?" Lily asked him, and Sirius felt himself lift something out of a pocket and look at it: a piece of Muggle technology of which he was particularly fond. Despite the fact that it hadn't been working properly for a long time now, he still kept it with him like a sort of good luck charm. "What is it called again? Walker?"

"Walkman," Sirius corrected. "Also heard it called a cassette player once. It plays Muggle music." Lily rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't be such an elitist, Evans. It makes you look fat. Where's Prongs?" He took off the headset which he'd had slung about his neck and set the device onto a nearby table, narrowly avoiding what would have been an open-handed slap across the face. "I need to talk to you both. It's serious."

"I _know_ it's serious," Lily said with a twinkle in her heartbreakingly familiar eyes. "You're standing right in front of me." Now it was _Sirius_ who rolled his eyes, and the part of him that remembered this scene suddenly felt a strong desire to cry. "He's putting Harry to bed. I'll let him know you're here. Sit down, won't you?"

Sirius sat, and thought about what he knew he was about to discuss with his friends, what he knew was going to happen not long from this moment. This was, more than any other, the single event that had changed Sirius Black's life forever. The pivotal event which had sent him down the path that would eventually end in his being so inhumanly stupid as to let himself bear witness to it again, as a trapped observer in his own mind.

Sirius leaned back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling of the Potters' home. He was grinning; he could remember just how proud he'd been of this particular idea. It had been brilliant, absolutely _brilliant._ Certainly, it was a simple enough trick, a vague notion that any number of tricksters like himself would have thought to do, but Sirius remembered that he'd never thought of his own ideas that way. So no, letting Peter "Wormy" Pettigrew take on the role of Secret-Keeper wasn't a simple idea. It was yet another stroke of genius.

Sirius turned, leaning his head against one arm of the couch and hanging his long legs over the other. Cradling his head against his folded arms, he began to whistle. He couldn't remember the tune that was obviously so familiar to his younger self, but he still understood the underlying tone behind it: he was in a thoroughly good mood, so excruciatingly happy that it gave the specter sharing his body a headache that wasn't there.

Sirius closed his eyes.

_**This will be painful, **_came a sudden voice in the back of his mind, and it took Sirius a long moment to realize that it was Kafell's. _**It will anger you, it will sadden you, and you will find it impossible to sit idly by and let it happen. Thus, you will understand why I have blocked you from the ability to manipulate your own body. It is…a matter of security. Now…we begin.**_

He could hear footsteps approaching the room.

Sirius suddenly wished he hadn't let the house elf take his Firewhisky.

* * *

><p><strong>Three.<strong>

* * *

><p>"Don't get me wrong, Padfoot, I love him like a brother, but...are you <em>mental?"<em>

Sirius grinned, even though he felt like screaming. "Some might say that, yeah, but...think about it! I mean, _really _think about it! Voldemort's a narcissist at heart. He won't think Peter's anything worth _looking_ at, much less making a target of! He's going to think you picked me or Remus. Or Dumbledore. Or...well, _anybody_ but Peter!"

He wasn't sure if he'd call himself gifted at the fine art of manipulation, but he'd always seemed able to manage it. Maybe he was just unusually gifted at picking the right people to surround himself with; people he could convince. Because even though the Sirius within Sirius hadn't been fooled in the slightest by what he could only describe as a horrid risk, he could tell that James and Lily were listening.

James was a clever man, just as he'd been a clever boy, but he had blind spots. Had anyone else—Dumbledore or Mad-Eye or the Longbottoms or anyone else in the Order—suggested the idea of using Peter Pettigrew as the catalyst for the Fidelius charm, he would have stalked off without a word, showing his absolute disgust at the idea by laughing his head off. "It's cute," he might have said, "but I ask you...what good would it possibly do to use such an obvious trick? Why not pick someone I've never even met, a fan of mine from school, if we're going on that logic?"

But it was Sirius. Padfoot. His old friend.

"I...guess it makes sense," James murmured grudgingly.

The elder Sirius, watching from his younger self's eyes, wanted to scream at him: "You great bloody _idiot! _No, it doesn't! He's one of us, whether he's fit for the job or not! Voldemort will just round us _all_ up and try to torture it out of us, and when has Peter _ever_ shown any aptitude for bravery? How that sniveling little butterball ever got into Gryffindor, I'll never…I'll…! _Damn it, _Prongs!"

"Wormy isn't exactly the strongest in the lot, though, is he?" Lily pointed out. "We'd have to watch out for him. I'm sure he'd do it if we asked him; his heart's in the right place. But..."

_Heart? Oh, you pitifully optimistic fool, Wormtail _has_ no heart! Why didn't we see it? Why couldn't we have seen it coming ten miles away? When did he ever show even the vaguest pretense of loyalty?_

_**Hindsight is a dangerous thing, **_came Kafell's voice behind his own. _**I wouldn't go judging them too harshly. After all, even **_**you **_**didn't see his treachery coming, shrewd and generally pessimistic as you are. **_Sirius's expression soured…or, he _wanted _it to sour. His smile didn't twitch a micrometer out of place. _**In the deepest, darkest part of you, where you hold your harshest thoughts, you thought Master Pettigrew was too weak to betray you.**_

"That's fine," Sirius declared. "I have it figured." He leaned back to a more comfortable position and allowed his friends to sit with him. "Remus and I can look out for him. The rest of the Order can be the first line of defense. We don't even…"

And it continued. Sirius listened to his old plan, his genius plan, and wanted to tear his beloved hair out by the roots. Wanted to cry. Wanted to tear down the walls and set fire to Godric's Hollow. He wanted to slap some sense into Lily Potter's pretty, trusting, hopelessly naïve face; he wanted to beat James Potter to a bloody stump. How could they _be _this stupid?

"Do we tell Dumbledore about this?" Lily asked. "He knows we planned on using you."

"No," Sirius said, "we let him go on thinking I'm the Keeper. Let the entire Order think it's me. We'll keep this between the five of us. Safer that way. The Death Eaters will think they can get any information they need out of the Order."

James was frowning. "So…Peter's Secret-Keeper. Okay, fine. We can do that. But I'm not sure…if we're going to be trying to keep this as secret as possible…" He grimaced. "I hate that I'm even saying this, but…but…I think we should keep Remus in the dark."

Sirius blinked. "What?"

Lily stared at her husband. "What?" she echoed.

"He…he's had enough secrets and double-crosses," James said, and the older Sirius thought he heard something else in the man's voice. "Let him think we kept it simple. Let him…let him believe we—"

"James," Lily said, "what happens if he finds out we lied to him?"

"…He'll manage," Sirius said stolidly.

And then something different happened.

Something Sirius didn't remember. Something…something impossible.

"You don't know who to trust," Sirius said, and this time…this time he _felt _like he was talking. "You're not sure if you can trust Remus. You don't know if you can even trust me. You're thinking…why would I suggest something this damn huge so late in the game? Why take the risk? Why the _hell _should you…?"

_**I'm sorry, Master Black.**_

And then everything vanished. James was gone. Lily was gone. The house in Godric's Hollow was gone. Sirius felt himself being thrown back into his chair in Grimmauld Place, and now he was staring at Kafell. The pale, translucent figure was leaning back and watching him, looking amused and delighted. "Your instincts are remarkable, Master Black," he said. "That should not have happened. _Your _doubt filtered through to _him. _Do you understand what that means? Can you comprehend it? You affected a vision of the past! You're the one, Master Black! It is you! It _must _be you!"

Kafell shot up to his feet, and began stirring the air again. It was quicker this time, more fluid, more confident. The grin on his face was one part happy, one part manic, one part hungry. Sirius stood up. "It must be me…to do _what?"_

"This plan," Kafell said, as the world distorted again, "relies on a certain person. A certain _type _of person. I was confident, yes, but now I am certain. It is you, Sirius Black. Not Albus Dumbledore, not the Weasley family, not Remus Lupin, not Nymphadora Tonks. None of them. It is you. It _must _be you. _You, _Sirius Black, can change it. _You, _Sirius Black, can _fix _it!" He held out his hands, and the vortex was beginning to pull at him. He could feel it, tugging. Encouraging. Begging. And Kafell's face was enraptured, his pale eyes blazing. He began to laugh, light and honest and somehow _beautiful. _"Go, Master Black! Go back, and claim what must be yours! Go back, and end this cycle! Go back with the blessing of God!"

Sirius didn't have to step forward this time.

All he had to do…was let go.

* * *

><p><strong><em>A couple of people have mentioned the fact that Lily was Muggle-born, and that this means she would know what a Walkman is, and that I have made a conscious mistake (a "folly") in assuming that she wouldn't.<em>**

**_I ask that anyone thinking of calling me out on this to keep something in mind: being Muggle-born does not mean knowing everything about Muggle technology. The first Sony Walkman was announced in June of 1979; as in, right in the middle of the last year of the First Wizarding War. When Voldemort was at the height of his power. The next year, Harry was born. The next year, she died._**

**_Lily rolled her eyes at Sirius not because she had no idea what a cassette player was; those came out in the early sixties. But I find it somewhat difficult to believe that she would be keeping up with the latest in Muggle music technology when she was...kind of preoccupied with fighting for her life. She wouldn't know the proper name for a Walkman because let's face it: it's kind of a weird word, and hadn't yet gained a foothold in any sphere of marketing in 1980, which is when that scene would have taken place. Lastly, the reason she asked him why he was still wearing it was probably because, as was mentioned before that exchange, technology goes haywire in the presence of magic; i.e., in the wizarding world, something as small and intricate as a portable tape player wouldn't work. In other words, for Sirius it was a fashion statement._**

**_Which, again, is kind of weird._**

**_I would please ask that further reviews refrain from telling me that Lily Evans was Muggle-born. I know she was. I've read this series a number of times, and have done my best to keep the time-frame in mind when writing this story. Lily's ignorance was a conscious decision on my part. It was not, in other words, a mistake._**

**_Thank you._**


	5. The First Night of November

_**What follows is a couple of experiments, the first and most pointed of which being the portrayal of Rubeus Hagrid. I dare any Harry Potter fan to meet/read/watch this…man…and not be enamored of him. Hagrid has a certain down-to-earth charm that you can't help but appreciate. Unless, of course, you're a heathen. You don't want to be a heathen, do you?**_

_** As I have mentioned previously, I've decided not to make reference to some of the more overtly British references and flavorings to be found in the books—even the "American" versions—because I get the feeling that I would get them hopelessly wrong. But in the matter of Hagrid…well, ignoring his particular speech patterns just didn't work.**_

_** So if I got him horrendously wrong, I beg forgiveness.**_

_** It's my first time.**_

_** That said, let us continue.**_

* * *

><p><em><strong><strong>_**One.**

* * *

><p>As sight faded, and his mind could no longer understand anything of what was happening to his body, Sirius Black watched with blank, thoroughly confused eyes as the creature in black cloth—the creature that might have been a person—looked away. He followed the thing's gaze, and saw something in the air; something hazy, something smoky. It made no sense.<p>

He didn't understand. Sirius only saw a flash of bright blue light, heard a voice cry out, _"Damn it!" _and all was gone. All was removed.

All was quiet.

When he regained consciousness, Sirius was lying flat on his back, outside, staring up at the night sky. He shifted his weight, and felt something sharp dig its way into his back. He struggled to his feet, barely able to hold himself upright, and stared bleary-eyed at his surroundings. For an agonizingly long time, he was unable to comprehend what any of his senses were telling him. The sounds, the smells, _everything _felt alien.

It felt like everything slammed into him at once. Years and years of memories, experiences, thoughts and dreams and waking nightmares, suddenly crowded his mind and threatened to drive him to his knees again. But with that mystifying cacophony came a sudden sharpness, a certain acuity, and he finally recognized that the frigid pain that was assaulting his bare skin meant that it was cold. Those parts of him that were passably comfortable were draped over by clothes. He looked down at himself; for a moment, he wondered why he was not wearing robes. Then he remembered that he hated robes, and it made sense that he would be wearing jeans, boots, a button-down shirt and a long leather coat. Unlike a great number of his contemporaries, Sirius had passed for a Muggle plenty of times without the faintest of strange looks.

It paid off to study certain things; even if your only motive was to infuriate your family.

He reached up and rubbed his face, feeling like he had been asleep for several years, and wondered why he was clean-shaven. It seemed to him that he should have had a beard. But as his fingers explored the skin of his face, he didn't find the faintest traces of facial hair. Filing this away as yet another mystery, he decided he would take advantage of this…facsimile of understanding to figure out where he was.

He looked around; the entire arena of his awakening was coated with snow. He saw sweeping hills of the stuff in between the pitiful, coated things that were trying to be houses, a ways off in the distance. His mind was torn between thinking the sight was pathetic and sublime, and there was a certain ache of nostalgia coming from…somewhere.

Sirius began to walk, his boots crunching as he sifted through Winter's sugar bowl. Certain landmarks drew him onward; it wasn't until he passed the church and its attendant graveyard that he recognized where he was completely, and his pace quickened.

The quaint little residential district was much more…respectable up close. He passed a great number of cottages, finding a smile cross his face. It was a peaceful stroll, he thought, and the air was just cold enough to be bracing. He actually gave a contented little sigh as he turned his attention straight ahead…

When he saw the shattered ruin, it wouldn't have been enough to say that his heart skipped a beat. It ran itself to a dead stop, and Sirius Black felt fear for the first time in his memory. An inarticulate moan of denial struggled out of his throat as he broke into a run, stumbling over himself, his boots kicking up a snowstorm.

"No no no damn it no God _please,"_ Sirius stammered through his clenched teeth, all traces of pleasant thought run straight out of him in a rush of frigid panic. He knew it was no good; as soon as he'd seen the house, that splintering splotch of blasphemy where his best friends' house should have been, he'd known. He'd _known, _damn it! And what was he doing now? Gawking at some mockery of a memorial like Muggles always did when cars crashed?

He stopped in front of the Potters' cottage, his breath coming in haggard little shrieks, almost choking as his wide grey eyes drank in what this meant: the Potters were dead. It couldn't be possible, it _can't_ have happened…but here it was.

Sirius had never been prone to "seeing the bright side." He stepped into the remains of the little house and began tossing debris aside not in some hope of finding proof that his friends and their son had escaped; he was not nearly as much a romantic as that. He was doing it because some part of him said that he should. "Just in case." It was the same part of him that'd thought his family would someday grow to appreciate that its prized heir was a Gryffindor. The same part of him that'd thought nobody would really care if word got out that Remus Lupin was a werewolf.

It was probably the same part of him that'd thought Peter Pettigrew had enough grit to be a Secret-Keeper, too.

Whatever mad delusion passed for optimism in Sirius Black, it was pushing him onward; pushing him to pick up splinters as thick as his arm, to take up bits of broken crockery, to toss aside shattered and blackened sections of wall. James and Lily Potter, that perfectly beautiful couple who had befriended him, supported him, protected him; James and Lily Potter, who offered help and comfort long before he ever thought to ask them for it; James and Lily Potter, who had named him their son's godfather, were—

He heard it, and for one horrific moment thought he'd snapped his mind. A baby, off to his right, behind the only wall that was even halfway upright anymore, began to cry. Sirius felt energy surge through his limbs, and he propelled over the heap, up to the wall and past it all in a single blur of motion.

There, big as life, small as hope, sat Harry Potter. On the floor and surrounded by what had once been his crib, the infant was wailing despondently at the air, tugging and pushing on something that—to his horror—Sirius recognized as a person's arm.

No. Not a person.

A…body's arm.

"Oh, God…" Sirius whispered, and sank to his knees.

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>Rubeus Hagrid, like Sirius, entered Godric's Hollow and looked upon the Potters' home with a kind of stunned disbelief. Beneath his massive beard, the man's mouth hung open.<p>

He didn't run, too senseless with shock to do anything but walk, almost shuffle, forward. It was with absolute numbness that he saw James and Lily Potter, cold and battered and lifeless, lying next to each other in front of the ruin. Their eyes were closed, and between them James's right hand had been placed over Lily's left.

Sirius Black stood off to one side. His faded blue pants, dark boots, and heavy black jacket were wet with melted snow and dusted with more. His face—barely in profile—was unreadable as he stared down at them. His long black hair was snapping about in the wind like a curtain over an open window. He had a bundle of some kind against his side.

"…Sirius," Hagrid murmured in his deep rumble.

Sirius turned, and Hagrid saw that the man held little Harry, sniffling and babbling quietly, in his arms. "Hagrid," he murmured to himself, like he was trying to remember who that was. "Look at this. Look at…look at what's happened. Because of…because…"

He didn't seem able to finish the sentence, nor even the thought. His grey eyes went blank, and he turned back to James and Lily as though hoping they might finish it for him. Hagrid saw that Harry's forehead, covered by his smattering of messy black hair, was marred by a scar. Like a burn mark, not a cut, in the shape of a miniscule lightning bolt. Tears streaked down the boy's cheeks, but he wasn't crying right now. He looked cold, and certainly unhappy, but there was a sort of calmness in him, too. Bright green eyes stared avidly at Hagrid, curious.

"Least Harry's safe," Hagrid mumbled, unsure of what else to say. "Count blessings for that, eh? How's he doin'?"

Sirius turned his attention to the boy. "Found him sitting next to Lily, crying fit to die. He knows _something's _wrong. Managed to get him calm, somehow. I think he remembers me. Haven't seen him much."

His thoughts were jumbled, his sentences random, but if he noticed he didn't seem to care. He wasn't paying any sort of attention to anything but the scene in front of him. Being the Hogwarts gamekeeper, Hagrid knew his way around animals more than he did people, and he thought Sirius Black looked like a dog cornered by some predator it didn't know: panicked, but resigned. But there was something behind the sheen of slate in his eyes. Like he was, at this moment, plotting revenge.

But all the same, he was clinging to the Potters' only child like a drowning man to a buoy, and even though he looked like he was itching to rush out and find the Dark Lord and strangle the life—or what passed for life—out of him, he was loathe to leave Harry. Sirius looked rooted to the spot, and could have stayed standing there forever if he needed to.

"You don't know what this means yet," the last Black heir murmured to his godson, turning the infant so that he could see his parents. Harry reached out a chubby hand to touch them, letting out a little whimper. Sirius took hold of that hand. "…Try and remember it, anyway. Your mother, and your father…were stupid, naïve, hopeless…bloody heroes."

And he began to cry.

Hagrid closed his eyes and bowed his head for a long moment. "Yeh shouldn' talk like that about 'em, Sirius."

"They _were _stupid, Hagrid!" Sirius snarled through his tears. "They were blind and stupid! They…they trusted Peter…they trusted _me…_and it fucking _killed _them!" The man's eyes were blazing now, boring into Hagrid's very soul. "Do you understand that? _Do_ you? James and Lily are _dead…_because they were bloody well idiots enough to listen to _me!"_

* * *

><p><em><em>**Three.**

* * *

><p>"What d'yer…?"<p>

It took Sirius a long time to remember that Hagrid had never even been told about the Fidelius Charm they'd used to hide the Potters, much less that Sirius should have been their Secret-Keeper. He wondered idly if Hagrid even knew what a Fidelius Charm was.

Sirius shook his head. Something about this situation didn't feel right. It didn't feel like it was going the way it was supposed to have gone. But he ignored that; it was as helpful an observation as saying snow was cold. Of _course _this wasn't going the way it was supposed to! He was holding onto a boy whose parents were corpses freezing at his feet!

"Hagrid," Sirius said, feeling a sudden compulsion to speak that he didn't recognize as his own; he felt like something…else…was making him do it. But he was too dumbstruck to resist it, and so he continued, "we…that is, the Order…had a plan. To protect them. We all know Voldemort—" The half-giant flinched violently "—doesn't forgive easy. But…but we had a spell that we cast for them. So long as we kept our mouths shut about where they were, he'd never be able to find them. If Peter…if he hadn't…he _must _have…!"

The realization came full force then.

What this meant.

What this…implicated.

Somehow, even though he had known it as soon as he'd seen the house, it hadn't hit him full yet. But now he stared at it, bald and glaring right up at him: Peter Pettigrew had let it slip. He'd gone from his hiding place…and now the Potters were dead.

Had Voldemort gotten hold of him?

Had…had Peter given the information…willingly…?

"What?" Hagrid asked, snapping Sirius out of his musings. "What're yeh thinkin' about?"

"…Voldemort's got to Peter, Hagrid. That's the only way this could've happened." A new compulsion took him. "Dumbledore. We have to find Dumbledore. The Order has to hear about this!"

"He 'as, Sirius," Hagrid said. "Found out same's you did, I 'spect. Sent me ter bring Harry to 'im. Says Harry's ter live wit' his aunt 'n uncle."

Something snapped in Sirius's mind. "…W-What? _What _aunt and uncle?"

"Lily's sister an' her husband. They're all little Harry's got left, now."

Grey eyes narrowed to slits. "I don't think so," Sirius said, suddenly breathless. "Oh, no. Not after this. You can't do this to me." Sirius sent a spasmodic, panicked look to the bodies. "They said…I was to look after Harry, if something happened. They named me his _godfather,_ Hagrid. That's all that's left of them I've got to hold to now. You can't…you can't take that from me."

"Dumbledore gave me orders, Sirius."

"No! Damn it, _no!_ Do you hear me?"

"Dumbledore knows best what's good for 'im now."

Sirius glared at the hulking man, every hint of murderous anger he'd ever felt landing right on that red, bearded face. Everything he felt for Voldemort, for Peter, for himself and for Dumbledore and every other _damned fool _who hadn't been able to protect his godson's parents, came out in a look that could have frozen the sun.

"…I'm coming with you. I want to hear straight from that old bastard's lips what game he thinks he's playing." Hagrid's own eyes flashed at the insult, but Sirius had never been easily intimidated.

He gave one last look back to his fallen friends, shook the hand he was still holding so that Harry waved goodbye to the parents he would never remember, and stalked off into the snow, leaving Hagrid to catch up.

* * *

><p><strong>Four.<strong>

* * *

><p>The halls of 12 Grimmauld Place are quiet. Almost desolate. Like it was built as an afterthought with spare bricks and mortar, and no one had actually entered it in years; an archaic cemetery, where even the newest residents are hundreds of years forgotten, and the flowers have long since crumbled.<p>

An elf in a shining-white tea towel passes by through the hall, holding a variety of cleaning utensils; he's muttering to himself. Up the stairs, through another hallway. Past doors and nooks and old portraits. An empty coatrack.

A sound.

Down the hall, in a room far off in the distant shadows, music. Someone is whistling. The sound seems to reverberate through the walls, to echo, to linger and haunt like a ghost that can only be heard.

Inside the room, a man lounges on a stuffed chair. He is dressed all in black, with a red tie. His brown hair is streaked with white. He looks too pale to exist. He raises a thin, almost delicate eyebrow, and gestures to an empty seat near him.

"Sit," the man offers, smirking.

The chair is stiff, but manages to be somewhat comfortable after a getting used to it a while. Looking at him full in the face, this man looks too sharp. His eyes, his mouth, his nose, his chin; he does not seem human.

"So," the too-sharp man says, "it would seem that things are underway. Master Black is beginning to…leave an imprint on the past. I had intended for him to remember everything from the future he has already experienced, so as for him to be better equipped. Alas, I was…interrupted. He is left with fragments, little sparks of intuition."

Far from being disappointed, the too-sharp man looks amused.

"But you know," he continues, "perhaps that is all right. He always was better at relying on instinct, after all. Why, even now, he's already managed to…well. I knew that having him appear in Godric's Hollow before the arrival of delightful Master Hagrid would be a good thing. See how he's already latched onto his responsibilities? Most admirable, really."

The too-sharp man's eyebrow raises even higher over a bright blue eye.

"Hm? Oh, don't be ridiculous. Of _course _they don't know about this. Do I look a fool?"

The too-sharp man chuckles.

"Don't worry yourself into a fit," he says. "Just…leave it to me. Little Kafell has everything in order. Now, then." He gestures to a kettle of tea on a small table near the chairs. "While we watch Master Black's new life unfold…would you care for some tea, Father?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>This story is, first and without reservation of its implications, a character study. I beg you not expect to see canon events as they might have unfolded if Sirius had replaced the Dursleys. I've run into that road-block before with another project, and it always ends up more trouble than it is worth.<strong>_

_** There is a reason for the title of this work. The story will unfold in an entirely different direction than Mistress Rowling's did. What will remain the same are the characters. Their personalities will remain as faithful to their creator's vision as I can make them, and if ever you question a choice I've made with one or any of them, please ask. Bring it to my attention.**_

_** You are just as much a part of this story as I am.**_

_** Let us shape its future together…while we have the chance.**_


	6. Appeal to a Phoenix

_**For those of you who will read this multiple times, I apologize. Feel free to ignore this if you've already seen it, and move on to the chapter.**_

_**Here in my neck of the woods, it is now the 9**__**th**__** day of February, in the year 2012. Ten years ago today, I came across Fanfiction-dot-Net. I proceeded to publish "Lonely, Broken Hero," the first story I wrote that ever felt complete. It was inspired by a song, written for the Square-Enix game "Chrono Trigger," and marked the beginning of a lifelong passion.**_

_**Since February 9**__**th**__**, 2002, I have had the honor of meeting some of the greatest people on earth. These people have given me 5,885 reviews, thousands of Favorites, and over 1.8 million hits across 40 projects. These people have supported me, cheered for me, informed me, criticized me, and helped me embark on some of the most memorable journeys of my life. I never would have made it without them.**_

_**To celebrate this illustrious anniversary, and to thank you for being the best audience an author could ever ask for, I have written extra chapters for each of my 8 ongoing projects. I present them to you now, and humble myself before you. Were it not for you, these stories never would have come into being, or lasted nearly as long as they have.**_

_**Thank you again. You all have changed my life.**_

_**Here's to another decade of adventure and exploration.**_

_**Enjoy.**_

* * *

><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>Albus Dumbledore was a man never surprised by anything. He had made a lofty, illustrious career out of keeping a cool head in every contingency, to the point that people thought he'd forgotten <em>how<em> to be angry or surprised.

Still, his bushy white eyebrows raised the slightest bit when it was not Rubeus Hagrid who came stomping up to him with little Harry Potter in tow, but Sirius Black—flinty-eyed with his teeth clenched, his long mane of black hair half-covering a face gone as white as the old wizard's beard, the man cut an impressive figure. At odds with the last Black's intimidating stature and thoroughly incensed glare, little Harry was looking around at Privet Drive with a bright, curious, and thoroughly innocuous expression. He had two fingers popped into his mouth, and seemed blissfully unaware of anything that might have been storming through his godfather's head.

Minerva McGonagall did not speak as Sirius approached, nor when Hagrid's enormous shadow announced his arrival some way behind. She shot a glance at Dumbledore, who seemed entirely unruffled. In fact, his eyes seemed to be sparkling. "Good evening, Sirius," he said. Sirius grunted a reply. As Dumbledore approached, Harry reached out his hands toward him, cooing curiously. The ancient wizard chuckled and ruffled the boy's hair. "And a good evening to you, as well, Harry."

"I hear told you've got ideas on Harry's living arrangements," Sirius said darkly.

"Ever to the point, my boy," Dumbledore chuckled.

"You're damned right, I'm to the point. You've managed about six hours before spitting on the Potters' memory. Color me curious, but I find that…troubling."

"Sirius!" Hagrid growled. "Yeh wanter watch yer _tone."_

Sirius scoffed.

Dumbledore regarded them both calmly; indeed, almost coldly. He said, "What _I _find curious, Sirius, is…how Lord Voldemort has managed to circumvent one of the most powerful feats of magic we wizards are capable of. It seems to me that _that, _more than any plans for the future we might discuss, should be…figured out first. Wouldn't you agree, Sirius?"

The young wizard's countenance shifted at once.

Jaw set, teeth clenched, Sirius said, "We put a wrench in the works," sounding utterly disgusted with himself. "Some days before we set to use the charm, I suggested we use Peter as Secret-Keeper. We, that is Remus and I, would keep an eye on him. Protect him. We figured…we figured none of them would ever think to target _Wormtail, _of all people. You know, same as we all, they're bloody narcissists. So caught up in their own self-importance they can't see past their damn noses anymore. They'd sooner scrape Peter off their shoes as look at him."

Dumbledore's gaze was no longer light and airy but searching, scrutinizing. Sirius stared the old warlock straight in the eye without batting an eyelash. Harry took his fingers out of his mouth and thrust out his arms toward a passing insect. "Gah!" the boy declared. "Bah! Buh!"

"Yes, Harry," Sirius murmured absently in a much softer tone than before, still staring hotly at Dumbledore. "That's a bug. Hush, now."

"What do you think happened?" Dumbledore asked, after a long silence.

"Tonight, before…before I found Harry," Sirius replied, grimacing and shaking his head as he finally broke eye contact with his leader, "I went to check on Peter. To see if he was…if he was safe. But he was gone. The place we set up for him was empty. No sign of a struggle, no sign anyone came in or out of it since the last time." He sighed, looking back up at Dumbledore. "Either someone overpowered him so much that he didn't have time to fight back, or tricked him. The information must have been forced out of him, somehow. Threatened, maybe. Or…tortured. Maybe…maybe Imperius. Or Cruciatus. I don't know." Dumbledore frowned thoughtfully. "I…_please, _believe me. You…you know me. I wouldn't have let this…if I'd been…if I…"

There was something in his face, something in his eyes. Not guilt, not desperation. No, it was more—resignation. The look of a man going through motions with no hope or belief that it would make any difference. For some reason that even Dumbledore, who was perhaps the most astute judge of character currently living, couldn't pinpoint…Sirius Black looked _wrong. _It wasn't just that he looked older than his twenty-one years. It wasn't just that in his eyes was a perfect mixture of compassion, grief, and naked fury. It wasn't even that he looked like a caged beast; though he did.

It was like seeing double, without _actually_ seeing double. Like his vision was blurred, even though it wasn't. Looking at the last Black at this moment, Dumbledore had the absolutely mystifying experience of wondering if the man was even human.

"There will be time to think of that later," Dumbledore said finally, and wasn't sure who he was talking to. Far from relieving the anxiety on Sirius's face, this seemed to further inflame it. "For now, we must find Peter Pettigrew. Where was he staying?"

Sirius opened his mouth to speak, then stopped.

His painful mixture of expressions all coalesced into one: blank, stupid confusion.

And he said,

"I…don't…remember."

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>People are strange, fickle creatures. Show them that a rat is in their house, and they throw their arms in the air and screech. Show them that a rat is on their street, and they glance at it only fleetingly before wondering why they've wasted their time; after all, it's only a <em>rat.<em>

Peter Pettigrew, nicknamed Wormtail, scurried along the gutters of a city miles upon miles separated from Godric's Hollow. He didn't pay any attention to the forest of stomping, stalking, kicking feet as Muggles went about their business; he only had eyes—black, beady eyes—for the wet, musty road before his claws. His mind had never been particularly quick, but it was thorough. Try as he might to ignore the implications of what he had just done, what he had just had a hand in doing, thoughts and fears and panicked leaps sifted through his human mind into his animal mind.

Wormtail was usually able to ignore the darker parts of himself. At school, he had always busied himself with remembering that he was a part of the most famous gang that Gryffindor House had ever seen. At school, he had been _somebody. _He had been important. Only the deepest, sharpest bits of him ever spoke up and said his fame was by proxy; that nobody knew him _except _by his connection to the quietly brilliant Remus Lupin, the handsomely irritating James Potter, the Byronically arrogant Sirius Black. They were the charmers, the geniuses, the people no one liked to admit that they liked.

Wormtail was the afterthought.

Small surprise that he was the rat. Not majestic like James, nor tragic like Remus, nor even imposing like Sirius. No; _his _animal was a grey-furred pest whose best hope was to be ignored. What did that say about his personality? What did it say about the truth behind the mask he liked to wear so often that even _he _didn't feel it? Oh, sure, it had been helpful; something that small could get places the others couldn't, see things other people didn't. The perfect spy, a thoroughbred scout. He'd been vital.

But that was all he could claim. They needed him.

But did they _want _him?

What did it really mean if you only kept someone around because you needed them? Not much. What did it mean if the only reason your friends ever smiled at you was because they were thinking about what you could do for them? Not much. That's all they ever thought about. James was spoiled; he always got what he wanted. Sirius was the same way. And Remus…well, Remus was desperate. He'd have befriended anyone just for the chance to remember he was alive. He'd strike up conversation with a tree if he had to.

Was it any real surprise that he didn't have the stomach for what they wanted out of him _this _time? Secret-Keeper. The most important job you'll ever take on. The greatest burden anyone can ever take. You're fit for it, Wormtail, honest. We trust you. We believe in you. Now go on and put yourself in mortal peril for us, while we go off and hide.

Hadn't it always been that way? Asking him to keep lookout, then ditch him as soon as he told them someone was coming? Asking him to squeeze under a door and see who was there, then disappear so that when he scrambled his way back out he didn't know where the bloody hell they'd gone?

It was only when he was thinking like this, only when he managed to convince himself they deserved it, that James's face didn't haunt his memory. That Lily's voice didn't echo like phantoms in his rounded ears. It was only when he told himself that they'd had it coming for years that he was able to forget the atrocity he had committed.

Times like these, he wondered why the Sorting Hat hadn't put him into Slytherin.

And then he thought about what it would have been like to have _every _classmate trying to find some way to use him, and felt relieved that he hadn't been put there, after all. And then he thought about what Godric Gryffindor would have thought of his behavior, and the relief disappeared.

It was a joke. All of it, some cosmic joke played on him by a God too cruel and conniving to admit it.

A God with white skin, red eyes, and a Yew wand with a Phoenix feather in it.

* * *

><p><strong>Three.<strong>

* * *

><p>"What do you mean, you don't remember?" Minerva McGonagall demanded. She looked thoroughly nonplussed and more than a little exasperated. "Didn't you say that you just <em>came<em> from there?"

"I…I lost consciousness," Sirius said, his eyes searching for something. "After I found Peter missing, but before…before I found Harry. There's…nothing. I can't remember a damned thing." He leveled a pleading, panicky look at Dumbledore.

The elderly wizard rubbed his bearded chin. "It would seem that this situation is quite a bit more pressing than I thought. If Peter _has _been taken in by Lord Voldemort's supporters, then he is in grave danger." He turned to Minerva. "We must find him. Send word to the rest of the Order, won't you?"

"Of course."

Dumbledore turned back to Sirius. "We'll send word to Remus. Perhaps he can help shed some light on this situation. In the meantime, Sirius, come with me. I should like to show you something." His smile finally returned. "Bring Harry along. Hagrid?"

"Yes, sir, Professor Dumbledore, sir?" the big man intoned.

"Accompany Professor McGonagall, won't you?"

Hagrid nodded gravely.

Dumbledore began to walk, and Sirius followed. Harry was still babbling nonsensically. Privet Drive was stone-silent, and their boots echoed in the sterile, midnight air. Neither man spoke, and so it was only Harry's voice that radiated in the stillness, accentuating their movements like the murmurings of a ghost.

Dumbledore stopped at Number Four, watching the house pensively as though it were a person, and waited for Sirius to stop beside him. He gestured. "This is his freedom, Sirius," came a solemn whisper. "Here, we can protect him. From Voldemort, from fear, from stress, until he is ready for them. Here, we can let him grow up free of our meddlesome influences."

"His mother's blood," Sirius muttered, realizing what this was about. "You want to protect him _that _way. Fair and good, Dumbledore, but Lily told me stories about her family. They're as likely to accept Harry as part of the family as burn the bloody house down. Lily's blood or not, they'll make him miserable. God's my witness, Dumbledore. He's better off with us, danger or no danger. Let me fill the spot they asked me to fill. Let me look after him. Let me...try to make up for what I've done to them."

Dumbledore frowned again. "You would risk his life…for pride?"

Sirius scoffed. "I've no _pride, _Dumbledore. Whatever pride I had got stomped out too long ago to recount, and left arrogance in its wake. But this isn't about that. This is about teaching Harry what he needs to know. Better he grow up knowing, than thrust it all on him at once."

"You do not think it wise to let him have a childhood free from fear of the Death Eaters? Without the foreknowledge that there is a group of people dedicated heart and soul to killing him?"

"Not only do I not think it wise, I think it abysmally stupid," Sirius said. "It occurs to me you're framing these questions like this on purpose. You know damn well this isn't about keeping him safe for his own sake. This is about taking him out of the equation. You're banking on us being able to take them all out long before Harry starts school. _That's _what you want. You want to invite him into our world once the danger's fully passed." His eyes narrowed. "You _also _want him to grow up in a complete family, no matter how unfit they are, so that he won't feel neglected. You think they'll grow to love him."

Dumbledore didn't answer.

"There's a problem with that," Sirius continued. "They _won't. _I met them once. Looked at me like I had three heads, and they might explode at any given second and shower them with blood and pus. They mistrust magic on a medieval level, Dumbledore. They'd drown Harry if it were legal. Like a sick cat."

"Isn't that a bit harsh?"

"That's the sad part. No. Listen to me, Dumbledore: hectic and dangerous as it might be for him, having to look over his shoulder whenever he damn well steps outside, he's better off doing that than staying here. Protection or no protection. Voldemort or no Voldemort. Besides…_we _can protect him."

"Like we protected Peter Pettigrew?" Dumbledore murmured, harsher than was normal for him.

Sirius flinched violently.

He seemed to decide something in the silence that followed. "If that's the way you feel about it, take him." He held Harry out. "Take him, and ship me off to the fucking island. If you're going to damn one of us, you may's well damn both of us. But you know…it's one thing to punish _me _for what's happened. It's a whole new level of evil to punish _him. _So do it if you like, Albus Dumbledore. But if you have any decency, don't you dare sleep through another night for it."

Dumbledore watched the young wizard without comment for a long, long time. Sirius remained resolute, holding the infant out in front of him. Harry reached out, clutching for Dumbledore's beard. For nearly a full minute, the two men stared at each other.

"Gah!" Harry said.

Dumbledore lowered his head, and gestured dismissively.

"James and Lily did, indeed, leave Harry to you. It was fully in their minds that the Dursley family was here, but they elected you. It is your decision, not mine, how he should be raised. I leave it to you to decide what is best for him."

Sirius flinched again.

But then he smiled, a positively radiant expression on his face as he held his godson to his side again. "Thank you," he said, voice choked with unshed tears. "Thank you, Professor."

Dumbledore chuckled. "An old man often ignores the wisdom of the young." He breathed deeply. "Now then. I will join Hagrid and Professor McGonagall in the search for Peter. You should find a place to let Harry get some rest."

Sirius nodded. "Yes, sir."

A moment later, Privet Drive was cloaked in silence again.

The Dursley Family would wake the next morning, and never realize how close they came to having their lives changed forever.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Don't get me wrong. I like Dumbledore. I like him a great deal.<strong>_

_**But sometimes I think he's got communication issues. I'm sure every fan has noticed at one point or another that half of the conflicts in each of the books could have been solved if Dumbledore had just **_**talked **_**to Harry. Or if Harry had talked to him, for that matter.**_

_**Communication is at the heart of problem-solving, and with this story I'm trying to inject some more of that into the wizarding world. Sometimes, there seems to be precious little of it.**_

_**And with this, the timeline of Harry Potter's life is changed forever.**_

_**Exciting, isn't it?**_

_**Next week, we'll see how things go with Sirius playing padre.**_

_**Should be interesting. See you then.**_


	7. Matters of Family

_**It has been mentioned that the opening chapters of this particular story are rather dark and depressing. I just wanted to mention that yes, they were. This was intentional. While I understand that that might not be appealing—trust me, I'm no fan of depression, even in fiction—I felt it was the right tone considering the circumstances. No hard feelings if that's not your thing. That's perfectly valid. I suppose you could say the…grimness of Grimmauld place (is that a pun? It feels like a pun) was an aesthetic choice on my part. Maybe that reveals something about my personality. Maybe I'm a masochist? I'm not sure.**_

_** In any case, this chapter begins to tread on lighter territory, I think. But still, we **_**are **_**dealing with the aftermath of the Potters' deaths, so we're not quite out of the woods yet. Still, not everything will be all dark and gritty.**_

_** At least, I hope not.**_

_** Enjoy.**_

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><p><strong>One.<strong>

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><p>Sentimentality had never been an important skill in the Black family.<p>

So it was that Sirius had very limited experience with the emotions running through his mind and his heart as he watched his tiny godson sleep. They were holed up for the night in a cleared-out storage barn owned by an elderly Muggle couple; it wasn't strong, and it wasn't particularly warm, but it was dry and out of the way.

People thought the most important thing to look out for when trying to find a place to hide was security; they sought out strongholds and fortresses. They were wrong. The important thing was _obscurity_. The key was to find a place so fundamentally obvious that even the most astute observer would hesitate to check it. It was also important to be able to move. Sirius had set a pile of relatively dry straw over to a far corner, opposite the cracked-open entrance and adjacent to a side door leading out into the Muggles' backyard. He'd set Harry down and wrapped the boy in his leather coat. Surprisingly, blessedly, he'd gone to sleep almost immediately. This was a good sign, Sirius reflected; it meant that he felt safe.

At least, safe enough.

It struck the last Black with a pang of regret that that was the best they could hope for now; _safe enough_. Little Harry Potter would never be truly _removed_ from danger, now that he'd been (indirectly) responsible for the death—or downfall, at least—of one of the most powerful, evil, but most importantly _charismatic _villains in all of wizarding history. Those still loyal to Lord Voldemort, and there were plenty, would constantly be on the look-out for the little brat responsible for their leader's disappearance, if for no better reason than they wanted to vent frustration.

And if the serpent-tongued bastard was still alive? Even worse.

And he could damn well be, Sirius reflected. Had they found Voldemort's body? No. They had no more proof he was dead than they had leads on his followers. Nobody knew anything.

The man called Padfoot sighed as he sat on the straw next to his charge, staring up at the rafters of the barn as though they might hold ancient wisdom. "What the hell am I doing?" he asked, speaking out loud to keep himself from going mad. "I've got no bloody clue how to take care of a _baby. _I've got no food, no water, no fixed shelter…no damned _sense, _either." Sirius shook his head, lowering his gaze to his lap. "Big man, Black, threatening Albus Dumbledore. Made your point, made it smooth and proper, with conviction, and _now _look at you. Still in hiding, still half-starved, but now you've got a damned _kid."_

Letting out a disgusted, derisive snort, Sirius lay himself down. Turning his head, he looked at the face of his sleeping godson, realizing that he'd just made a commitment that he couldn't back out of. It did no good to complain about it now. He'd made his case, and he'd taken up his duty. To James, to Lily, and to Harry.

He didn't know how to look after a baby? He'd have to learn. No more random excursions into Muggle cities to study them like animals at a zoo. No more trips to Muggle restaurants to flirt with the servers.

He was this boy's godfather.

It was time to start acting like it.

Sirius fell into unconsciousness still studying the boy's face, the sheer innocence of it, and reflected that that really didn't seem so bad.

After all…if Prongs could do it…

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><p><strong>Two.<strong>

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><p>Remus Lupin wasn't used to traveling in broad daylight, truth be told, and thought that was probably the reason he felt so jumpy as he accompanied Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and Rubeus Hagrid along a beaten country road at the crack of dawn. They had spent the entirety of the night searching high and nigh for some sign of Peter Pettigrew, Voldemort, Voldemort's supporters, indeed anyone even passably connected to the deaths of the Potters, with no luck on any score. They were tired, discouraged, and the air was thick with a swell of emotions that stormed about their heads like vindictive spirits.<p>

The companions, each of them thoroughly out of place, entered most peculiarly into a battered Muggle barn. Sirius lay sprawled out like a drunkard on a bed of straw in one corner, snoring loudly. Little Harry lay curled up in his godfather's coat. Identical, tired smiles spread on four mismatched faces as they took in the scene. They exchanged looks, all thinking roughly the same thing—Sirius Black was so ill-fit for parenting that it was equal parts comical and tragic imagining him with a child, yet somehow seeing him next to Harry like that was the most natural thing any of them had ever seen.

"Seems right comf'terble, he does," Hagrid mused.

Hagrid had a naturally loud voice, and his whispers were often enough to cause distraction, but even so, the speed with which Sirius sprang to his feet with his wand at the ready—prepared to kill if he had to; the savage glint in his grey eyes was more than enough proof of that—was a shock.

Except, that was, for Remus. "Easy, Padfoot," he said gently, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "You're among friends. I swear it."

"How long did it take Prongs to score his first goal for Gryffindor?" Sirius snarled without a trace of fatigue. His wand was still held out toward each of them.

"Two-and-a-quarter minutes," Remus said without hesitation, "though he fluctuated depending on whether he was telling a girl or not. When he told the story to Lily Evans, he seemed convinced it had taken fifty-four seconds."

This seemed to pacify the man. Though still wary, Sirius lowered his wand and sank to a sitting position next to Harry, who had taken no notice of the noise and was still snoozing. "Did you have any luck?" Sirius asked no one in particular. "Did you find him? Did you find _anything?"_

Dumbledore shook his head, his expression turning grave. "No, unfortunately. There are no traces of Lord Voldemort or any of his supporters anywhere near the safe-house where Peter Pettigrew was staying. Some of the suspected Death Eaters have come out of the woodwork, claiming innocence. It seems as though they were manipulated into service by a great number of means. Torture, blackmail, abduction…"

"Like who?" Sirius asked, eyes narrowing as his jaw flexed.

"Your, ah…esteemed cousin and her husband, for two," Remus offered.

"Narcissa?" Sirius spat on the ground. "If she and that two-faced twit were manipulated into anything, I'm a bloody street magician." Another sigh. "Might have expected this. Well, it's no matter to me. Let them hoodwink the ministry into giving them a medal for all I care." Sirius looked around at them all, and he suddenly looked worried. "I've got a bigger problem on my hands right now."

"And what might that be?" Minerva asked crisply.

Sirius gestured to the boy. "What in creation do I _feed _it?"

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><p><strong>Three.<strong>

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><p>It was Remus who broke the stunned silence. He began to chuckle, softly at first, then with increased mirth until he was outright laughing. Sirius didn't look the faintest bit amused by this, glaring daggers into his friend's shaking form, and the other three wondered if he might not draw his wand again.<p>

Dumbledore's smile returned. "Ah. Quite the dilemma, indeed."

Even Minerva, still stone-faced, had a bit of a twinkle in her rather severe green eyes.

"It might be a good idea for you to come along with us," Remus said when he'd regained control of himself; he was grinning like a fool. "Arthur's invited us to stay at the Burrow for a while. Bit of an impromptu headquarters, while we figure out what to do about Peter. I'm sure he and Molly will be able to help you a bit."

Sirius's anger seemed to abate. The thought of turning to the Weasleys hadn't occurred to him the night before, but now he thought about it...it seemed the natural thing to do. "That sounds like a good idea." He stood up again, wiped off his pants, and knelt down. Gently, and somewhat awkwardly, he lifted the bundle of his coat. "Sleeps like a log, this one," he said. Once he had his godson in a relatively manageable position, Sirius started forward. "If any of you turns out to be a Death Eater trying to pull one over on me," he said darkly, "have the decency to do something worth killing you for, would you? I could do with a bit of exercise."

"Duly noted," Minerva said shortly.

They began to walk again. "It's just like you to hide out in a Muggle village," Remus said as they all approached the dirt road. Sirius smirked. "Was Harry injured at _all?" _he asked, glancing over at the boy. "Looks like there's a scar, there, above his right eye."

Sirius nodded. "Not sure what backfired, but I'm pretty sure this is the first time anyone's ever survived one of that slippery bastard's curses." He glanced at Dumbledore for confirmation.

"People are calling him 'the boy who lived,'" the old wizard said.

"Well, _that's _clever," Sirius muttered. "Hear that, Harry? You _lived._ They'll be calling me the man who breathes, next. Idiots." He rolled his eyes.

"Don't be too hard on them," Dumbledore advised. "This is truly a momentous occasion. Whatever it is that _did _happen last night, Voldemort is no more. I think we can allow the people a fair amount of celebration, don't you think?"

"I'll believe Voldemort's gone when I see his corpse chopped up and burnt on a bonfire," Sirius growled. He was ignoring the conflicted look on Hagrid's face; no doubt he wanted them to stop using the Dark Lord's name, but couldn't bring himself to criticize Dumbledore. "Or stewed and fed to a hag. I'm not picky. Or do they prefer their meat raw?" He turned to Remus. "You're the expert, Moony. What's the word?"

"Have you heard from the Longbottoms yet, sir?" Remus asked Dumbledore, pointedly ignoring the inquiry. "Weren't you saying something about _their_ possibly being in imminent danger, as well?"

"It seems Alice and Frank have been traveling recently," came the sober, but not particularly concerned, reply. "Rather a smart idea, not keeping to one place. But from the sound of it, you would think they were simply taking a vacation." Dumbledore chuckled. "Still, I've sent them an owl, asking them to meet us at the Burrow as soon as they can." He stopped, frowning thoughtfully. "Dear me. I do hope there's enough room for everyone."

"How is Neville doing?" Remus wondered. "He's around Harry's age, isn't he?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Last I had heard, they'd taken him to a Muggle zoo, and he somehow managed to get lost in a butterfly house. It seems young Neville was quite pleased, though the proprietor was quite...concerned. So were his parents, now I think on it. It took them quite some time to find him."

The conversation continued in this vein until the six of them reached a spot far enough outside of the Muggles' territory so as not to draw too much attention to themselves, as they set about more…efficient modes of transportation in order to reach a rickety little house on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole, where Sirius dearly hoped he might be able to gain a firmer grasp on the holy mess he had managed to put himself into.

He only hoped Arthur Weasley understood parenting better than he did technology.

Sirius couldn't help but think about the first time the Weasley family's patriarch had managed to land his hands on a Muggle car. Everyone still talked about the resultant explosion with great fondness…everyone but Molly, in any case. Sirius wondered if Arthur's burns had healed yet.

_"_What the hell am I doing?"he asked again, as the world vanished around him and distance had no meaning.

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><p><strong>Four.<strong>

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><p>One might have thought that Harry Potter was a new puppy, the way Molly Weasley doted on him. As soon as they'd walked through the Weasleys' front door, she'd set upon the Order's members with questions: though she was respectfully subdued when it was confirmed that James and Lilly Potter were dead, she—in a way that would have made Lily proud, Sirius mused—almost immediately put on a bright smile and the warmest disposition any of them had ever seen when she laid eyes on their son.<p>

The Burrow was a loud place, well on its way to becoming the most crowded wizarding residence in Britain, if it wasn't already; the twins were rushing through the hallways, pointing at things with a pair of identical toy wands and—when nothing happened—making sound effects and tossing glitter into the air.

Charlie seemed to have been placed in charge of them for the time being, but wasn't putting much effort into it. In fact, he seemed rather entertained by Fred and George, and more than once Molly snapped at him to keep a closer watch on them, after which Charlie would put on a severe face—which would only serve to make his tiny brothers laugh.

"How old are they now?" Sirius wondered, having not seen the Weasley children in at least a year-and-a-half. Contrary to the way she swelled with ire when talking _to _her children, Molly swelled with pride at the chance to talk _about _them.

"Bill's starting school next year," she said fondly. He would be turning eleven in twenty-seven days; Charlie was eight; Percy, five; the twins, three; Ronald was a year old, like Harry; and little Ginevra was only a few months. "Ginny and Ronnie are sleeping at the moment," Molly said, suddenly speaking quietly as though they might hear her and wake up. "And isn't he the sweetest little thing?" she cooed, giving Harry a little wave. Harry, for his part, stared at the woman like he wasn't sure what she was; eventually, he reached out a tiny hand toward her. Molly beamed at him. "Yes, yes, just a little _darling. _Sit down, Sirius, won't you? Have you eaten?"

"I'm fine, Molly," Sirius said, "but if I'm not mistaken, Harry could do with a meal right about now."

"Oh! Of course! Yes, straight away! Just wait there!" And she was off to the kitchen.

"When she's on a course," Sirius muttered as Remus sat down next to him, "she's just as loud as any of her children. And here she is, snapping at the twins to keep it down." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Can't well hear yourself think in this place," he said. "Bad enough with the nine Weasleys. Throw in houseguests? Bloody chaos."

"Yes," Remus murmured, chuckling. "You seem quite perturbed about it."

_"Fred!" _Molly's voice thundered from another room. _"What _have I told you about setting gnomes loose in the house? Charlie, I _asked _you to _watch _him! I swe—_George! _Do _not _hang it by the ankles! Don't you _dare _go into your sister's room with that, _do you hear me?_ You stop that laughing, Bill, it _isn't funny!"_

A wide grin spread on Sirius's face; he kept his eyes closed, leaning his head against the back of the couch. "Oh, yeah," he said. "I hate it here."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Another first for me: writing the Weasleys.<strong>_

_** I am generally of the opinion that the Weasley family is one of Rowling's crowning achievements. Every member of this clan fascinates and entertains me, and the chance to write them is particularly gratifying. Though, of course, it was also somewhat difficult. Getting everyone's ages straight in this timeline of mine was interesting, to say the least. I think I've got everything in order.**_

_** If I ever make a mistake in regards to the Harry Potter timeline, please let me know. I've read the books several times over, but dates aren't often mentioned explicitly, so there's always a chance that the information I do find is inaccurate.**_

_** I know that Arthur and Molly weren't in the first Order of the Phoenix, but they were supporters. I figured that would make the Burrow a decent, if crowded, meeting place. Not to mention…well, Sirius is going to need some help, adjusting to his new responsibilities, isn't he?**_

_** Who better than family (distant, I admit, but that's probably a good thing) to teach him?**_

_** I hope you enjoyed this chapter.**_

_** See you next week.**_


	8. The Serpent's Request

_**I apologize for the lateness of today's chapter; I ran into a number of difficulties, not the least of which being a number of reading assignments. However, I present to you chapter eight, complete with yet more introductions and a thickening of the plot.**_

_** This chapter is a bit shorter than the previous couple, so I'll stop there for brevity's sake.**_

_** Let's begin.**_

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><p><em><strong><strong>_**One.**

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><p>When Ronald and Ginevra woke up from their nap, Molly suggested that Sirius set Harry down with them to play for a while. <em>"I'll <em>keep an eye on them," she said, turning a sardonic eye on Charlie, who seemed blissfully unaware of his mother's ire. "Could you go on outside and check on Arthur? He's _supposed _to be de-gnoming the garden, but for some reason," Molly shot a suspicious glare at Fred, "I think he might be…distracted."

"Sure thing, Molly," Remus said, chuckling.

Sirius stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat and followed his friend out of the house. "Mooney," he said as they stepped outside, "I've been thinking about something, and I can't be sure if I'm just being paranoid. I wonder what _you _think: should I be looking for a place for us to live _permanently, _or just keep moving round Britain until the Death Eaters are caught?"

Remus frowned thoughtfully as he scanned the Weasleys' garden for Arthur. "It does seem fair to think the Death Eaters will be looking for Harry. If they get wind that you're staying in one place, they'll certainly seek you out. Some of them are quite clever; and we can't expect them to play by any sort of rules."

"That's what I was thinking," Sirius mused. "They're slippery," he added with clear disdain, "and…well, _I _might be able to outwit them, in fact that might be a bit of fun, but…Harry, well. You know."

"I do," Remus said. "I think you might be on to something, though. It might be your best chance to keep him away from harm if you keep moving. Muggle communities would probably be a good idea for a while, but eventually they'll notice the pattern. We can't assume they _won't _find you."

"Can't stay _here _for long," Sirius mumbled as he stepped out into the garden, searching. He spied Arthur kneeling in the dirt near the fence off in one corner, and he seemed to be talking to someone. It was a mark of Sirius's paranoia that he was instantly on guard, even when he saw that it was a gnome the Weasley patriarch was conversing with. Remus chuckled, but Sirius spied a note of anxiety in _his _face, as well.

"Welcoming the new neighbors, Arthur?" Sirius asked, smirking to hide his nerves.

Arthur jumped, surprised, and turned a guilty look over his shoulder. "Ah. Sirius, Remus. Good to see you boys again. When did you arrive?"

"Not too long ago," Remus said.

Arthur gazed at them both with a searching sort of look. "The news about James and Lily…?" he murmured, ending the half-finished thought with a questioning lilt. Remus and Sirius both nodded, and the man's countenance fell. "I see." He stood up and brushed off his robes. "I'm sorry to hear that. How's Harry?"

"Fine," Sirius said. "He's meeting your two youngest at the moment. Molly's watching them. She sent us out here to check on you. Seems she's concerned about your ability to concentrate."

Arthur chuckled nervously, running a hand over his thin red hair. "Yes, well, you know. They're such _fascinating_ creatures. We tend to think of them as having such low brain power, and yet…well, they can _speak, _you know, and that's a definite sign of intelligence."

"Were you carrying on a conversation with one of them, Arthur?" Remus wondered.

"I've been trying to teach this one the alphabet," Arthur proclaimed pleasantly, gesturing to a spot of dirt in the garden that was conspicuously gnome-less. He glanced down, blinked, and said, "Oh. Well, I suppose he isn't fond of strangers."

"Crying shame," Sirius muttered sardonically.

"Yes," Arthur agreed, not seeming to catch the sarcasm. He glanced up at the sky, seemed to finally realize how late in the day it was, and looked suddenly panicky. He said, "Ah…listen, boys, could you…do me a bit of a favor?"

"Need a hand?" Remus guessed, and Arthur nodded almost frantically.

Sirius chuckled, looked round the garden, and pushed up his sleeves. "Why not?" he asked no one in particular. "It's been a while since I've had some manual labor." A competitive gleam was in his eyes now, a gleam that Remus recognized. "What say, Mooney? A galleon to the one who tosses the most?"

Remus smirked. "You're on, Padfoot."

And they were off to the races like schoolchildren, treating the de-gnoming like something of a sport. Arthur did his part, but spent most of the next hour or two simply watching the younger men act like teenagers as they grunted, cursed, and heckled each other; gnomes flew this way and that, in long sweeping arcs across the garden. At one point, Sirius even threw a gnome _at _Remus, who caught it easily and launched it over his shoulder. By the end of it, they were laughing loudly enough to wake the dead.

Molly didn't say anything in particular when the three of them came back inside, flushed and dirty like they'd just come back from a triathlon. Nor did she comment on how late it was, or how _loud_ they'd been out there. The only thing she said was that she expected them to wash up before dinner.

"How's Harry?" Sirius asked, still out of breath.

"He's fine," Molly said. "I've already put him to bed for the evening. The poor little dear was exhausted. Dumbledore helped me make up a bed for him in Ronnie's room before he left."

"Dumbledore was here?" Arthur asked keenly.

"Oh, yes," Molly said. "But he said he had some important business to take care of at the school. Meeting with a prospective teacher, I think."

"Mm," Arthur said, looking disappointed.

"Easy to forget school's in session," Sirius muttered, glancing up at nothing. "Feels like it's been forever since we were in school. Doesn't it?" Remus nodded. "And what have we learned? Look at us, Remus; we're just the same reckless idiots we always were."

Remus chuckled. "At least we don't have to worry about points," he said.

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

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><p>"You were supposed to keep her <em>safe<em>. That was the point behind this farce, wasn't it?"

Severus Snape had never been particularly cheerful. But since the time Albus Dumbledore had seen him last, he seemed to have aged to the point that good humor of any kind was centuries beyond him. He was twenty-one years old; he'd been at school the same years as Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. And yet he made both of them seem in the prime of springtime spirits by comparison.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, staring across it at the grieving young man who shared his space, contemplative nearly to the point of brooding. "It would seem that James and Lilly Potter"—Snape flinched violently at the sound of the surname—"put their trust in the wrong person."

"I could have told you long before now that Sirius Black was too—"

"Not Sirius Black," Dumbledore cut in. Snape looked surprised. "Peter Pettigrew, or so Sirius tells me, was the key to this. If he had been able to fulfill his duty, this would not have happened. However..."

Dumbledore trailed off.

"The Fidelius Charm," Snape guessed after a moment. He still looked perplexed, which in Snape's case also doubled as looking irritated. "Pettigrew?" he all but spat. "Could a _worse _candidate for such a spell have been chosen?" For his part, Dumbledore looked half-amused, half-worried at this observation. Snape sneered. "You find this _funny?"_

"Not at all," Dumbledore assured his disagreeable companion. "Though I hate to speak ill of someone who graduated from my house, I tend to agree that he was a poor choice for a secret-keeper. As proven most assuredly by the fact that he has…failed." The old wizard's face lost all traces of mirth. "It is for this reason that I must ask something of you, Severus."

Snape scoffed derisively. "How thoroughly like you, Dumbledore, to expect me to hold up my end of the bargain when you have so grievously failed at yours."

Dumbledore's eyes flashed. "I would remind you, Severus, that were it not for your loyalty to Lord Voldemort, the Potters would never have been placed in danger in the first place." Snape flinched again. "I do not deny my part in this, for you are correct. I _did _agree to protect them in exchange for your cooperation. But I will not have you placing blame solely upon my shoulders. Understand, Severus, that it was not _my _choosing that placed Peter Pettigrew in this position, nor was it my doing that brought about his failure."

Snape grimaced. "Very well, then. What is it you wish of me?"

"Peter Pettigrew has disappeared. We believe that he is in the custody or company of the Death Eaters. I ask you to find him. Bring him back to me. I have…questions for him." It wasn't often that the Headmaster of Hogwarts looked angered, or even mildly irritated. Now, he looked livid. Even Snape, who did not make a habit of being intimidated, felt himself stiffen with apprehension. "Neither Sirius Black nor Remus Lupin suspect that their friend turned to Voldemort willingly. I remain unconvinced. If it turns out that Peter _has _been spying for the Death Eaters, I _do not _wantyou taking matters into your own hands. Do you understand, Severus? Whether he is innocent _or _guilty, bring him to _me."_

Snape was not in a position to know the name of every soldier under Voldemort's command—none of them were. That was the entire point of the masks and hoods. Whatever part of him that remained loyal to the Dark Lord was affronted that Pettigrew—a sniveling coward from the first—could even be _suspected _of being a Death Eater. The rest of him realized that it wouldn't surprise him at all. Most Death Eaters, Snape reflected, were cowards; used for convenience and little else.

"I have one more request to make of you, Severus," Dumbledore said, snapping Snape out of his musings. "You know well how, and most importantly _why, _Lily Evans died." It did not pass Snape's notice that the old man refrained from calling her a Potter again, and wondered if he should be grateful or insulted. "Sirius Black has taken up his obligations as young Harry Potter's godfather. In whatever way you can, I ask that you help him do it."

The very air did a double-take along with Snape as he stared, open-mouthed. "You…expect me to _help _that arrogant little—"

"We wizards are all arrogant, from time to time," Dumbledore said; he seemed to have regained his composure. "Yes, Severus, I do. If you truly loved Lily, then you will not allow her sacrifice to be in vain. I do not expect you to _speak _to the man. He trusts you as little as you trust him. But you know better than I that a great number of Death Eaters will target Harry Potter. For the sake of retribution." Snape thought of Bellatrix Lestrange, and held his tongue against further complaint. "If it will make you more comfortable, perform in _that _capacity."

Snape sighed. "…Fine, then. I'll do it. Now, what of _my _request?"

"Yes," Dumbledore murmured, leaning back in his chair and lifting a sheet of parchment from his desk. "I've perused your application, Severus, and I must admit that your credentials _are _rather impressive." It didn't take a genius to know where this was leading, and the sallow look on Snape's face did not lessen. "However," the Headmaster continued, and wasn't _that _the king of all backhanded segues, "I am afraid that I have elected to fill the post for Defense Against the Dark Arts with…another."

"I see," Snape said through clenched teeth.

"But since Professor Slughorn announced his pending retirement," Dumbledore went on, "I have had some difficulty finding a replacement. I believe, given your history and…innovations in his subject, that you would be quite suited for the position. What do you say, Severus? Would you be willing to share your knowledge as a potioneer with future generations?"

Though Snape looked less than pleased—not that this was new; even as a student, he had never been fond of this office _or _the man who owned it—it did not take him long to answer: "Yes. I would."

"Very good," Dumbledore replied, sounding delighted. "Beginning next term, I should like you to act as Professor Slughorn's adjutant, as he will only be teaching for the remainder of this year. If you prove suited to it, as I've no doubt you will, I will hire you officially as Potions Master starting next September. I trust this will be acceptable?"

"Fine," Snape said.

He stood, and with a flourish of his black robes, Severus Snape swept out of Dumbledore's office.

There was a long period of silence.

"He'll be trouble, that one," came a particularly petulant voice from over Dumbledore's shoulder. "I'm not sure you're doing yourself any favors with him. Fickle loyalties. Far too…unpredictable."

"On the contrary, Phineas," Dumbledore said, "I find Severus to be _quite _predictable."


	9. A Mind's Last Defense

_**Sorry for the lateness of this chapter. School and work obligations did a wonder on my schedule (read: wrecked it) over the weekend, and I was left with a limited amount of time to work on stories.**_

_** In spite of this, I hope that you find this chapter enjoyable. I will admit that I am still exploring the world of Harry Potter, and while I do know where the story is headed, I have yet to fully configure how it is that I'll go about getting there.**_

_** So I hope that you will explore with me, and have some fun hanging around with these characters. Even when it seems like they aren't going anywhere, they have a way of making things…complicated.**_

* * *

><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>A day later, Sirius Black left the Burrow with his godson in tow, and Remus Lupin left with him. Dumbledore had returned a few hours previous, announcing that he had put his best effort forward into finding Peter, though he was typically vague as to what that actually meant.<p>

"I should be searching as well," Remus had said. Sirius had been inclined to say the same thing, but the bundle in his arms reminded him that he had more…pressing work to do. No matter what theory he bent his mind to picking apart, Sirius couldn't justify putting Harry into danger, nor leaving him in the care of anyone else. After his performance at Privet Drive, it would have been the height of hypocrisy to ask Molly and Arthur to watch the boy while Sirius went off to risk his neck.

"I would like you, Remus, to help Sirius and Harry," Dumbledore had replied. "Owing to your, ah, history, you are the best suited among us to keep them out of the limelight, so to speak. We need to ensure that Harry stays out of the reach of whatever Death Eaters may remain. We cannot assume that they all were under Voldemort's control. As sad and…accusatory as it might be, we must move forward with the belief that at least _some _of them acted of their own accord."

And so now they walked, side by side in Diagon Alley, seeking out whatever it was that they might need for the…journey. Sirius had already stopped at Gringott's to pick up some gold; it was a marvel to realize that—after years of living essentially penniless—there was actually enough money in his old vault that this freak-show family he seemed to be building could not only live on it, but live _comfortably. _Of course, the problem was that there wasn't going to be many chances to do that. The whole idea was to stay as out of sight as possible.

Remus looked entirely too nervous to be out in daylight again; he was used to traveling at night, in the middle of nowhere. He preferred forests and mountains more than anything even remotely urban; it was safer that way, for him and for…everyone else. Sirius kept having to tell him to calm down before he _actually _attracted attention to himself.

It didn't really work.

It was at some point during the mid-afternoon that Sirius had one of those…sparks of intuition again. Though he didn't know at the time what they signified, he would notice later that they always seemed to show up at pivotal moments, or at least pertain to pivotal things.

Not that this seemed particularly pivotal, but what could you do?

It was thanks to this peculiar fit of impulse that Sirius entered Quality Quidditch Supplies and bought a miniature broomstick for Harry; he recalled for no reason in particular that he'd gotten one as a gift for the child before, but it—unlike its owner—hadn't had the good fortune to survive the first night of November. Remus, who had taken up the arduous task of holding Harry (by virtue of his incessant wriggling, it was clear that he was no fonder of the arrangement) when Sirius had suddenly decided to do a bit of shopping, raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Dare I ask what was so critical about a toy?"

"Trust me," was all Sirius could think to say. "It'll be important."

The quizzical look didn't abate. "…Fair enough, Padfoot. Fair enough. I didn't realize that you were a latent seer."

"I've been called stranger things. Call it my animal instinct if it makes you feel better." He winked. But in the back of his mind, Sirius wondered if it _was _a hint of fortune-telling that seemed to be taking over his choices lately. He'd never put much stock in divination, had never even _considered _taking it at school, and couldn't recall ever having been struck by it before.

Yet now, it felt like every other day, some part of him was insisting that he do a certain thing, or speak a certain way, or approach a certain person. He tried to think of anything he may have heard about when a seer's "inner eye" first opened; was it around his own age? But eventually he decided that it was no use. He didn't know a damn thing about it.

Perhaps that was why he was gravitated toward Flourish and Blotts, even though he hadn't darkened its doorstep since he'd picked up his seventh-year textbooks. Remus said nothing in particular; though there was surprise clearly written on his face, there was also keen interest.

"Good afternoon, sirs!" proclaimed the manager as they entered. "Is there anything I can help you find today?"

Sirius waved a dismissive hand. Remus said, "Ah, yes. I'm looking to brush up on potion-brewing. I've never been particularly good at it, you see, and I was hoping…" And so on.

Sirius began strolling aimlessly through the shop, eyes flitting here and there across any number of spines and covers, hoping that this newfound _sense _might guide him toward…something. Of course, the problem with a skill like seeing, or intuition or instinct or whatever you wanted to call it was that it rarely (that was, never) worked on demand. So here he was, wandering through a bookstore—when he'd never been particularly interested in books past their use as kindling—feeling like a great damn fool.

Until he saw it, hidden in a dark corner: not with any books on divination or fortune-telling, but in the middle of a random display of secondhand volumes of all sorts. It sat atop a chewed-and-blackened tome about caring for magical creatures from Northern Ireland—a nondescript little book, leather-bound but without any kind of picture plastered on the front.

All the same, Sirius _felt _himself drawn to it.

He picked up the slim volume, which had no title on the cover or the spine, and opened it. On the title page opposite a conspicuously stationary frontispiece of a bird perched on a dead tree, these words were printed laboriously in faded ink, clearly handwritten:

**A Mind's Last Defense**

**Karlin F. Labeau**

"Find everything all right?"

The voice came clear out of nowhere, and Sirius flinched violently. He turned, saw the manager smiling cheekily at him, and said, "Ah…yeah. Sure. Ring it up, barkeep."

This earned him a decidedly strange look, and Sirius blinked. He handed the book to the manager, who evidently decided that a sale was worth whatever social oddities he might have to put up with, and the smile returned with gusto. "Absolutely, sir! Is there anything else you might need?"

"…Any guides on parenting?" the last Black asked blankly.

"Your friend already covered that base for you, sir."

"Oh. Good. Always was a quick thinker, that one. I guess that's it, then."

The manager was nodding, and Sirius had an odd feeling that the man wanted him and his…friend…out of the shop as quickly as humanly possible. Though his haste wasn't quite to the level of rude, and certainly not to the level of refusing to take their money, it was fast approaching that point. The thought crossed Sirius's mind that if _he _was noticing this, in his thoroughly befuddled state, then Remus would have sensed it long before now and was probably gnawing off his fingernails in torturous anticipation.

Sirius decided to just pay for his book and leave.

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>Sequestered in a cramped room in the Hog's Head, Sirius studied the book he'd gotten. Remus was on the floor, huddled in a corner near the door. "You do know what it means to <em>hide, <em>don't you, Sirius?" the young werewolf asked sardonically. "The idea is to _not _be where we've already been seen."

"Calm down," Sirius muttered, not really paying attention as he rifled through pages. "Nobody will believe we're this brazen. Defy expectations, Moony. That's the whole idea. The last place they'll figure to find us is right here in the open. So that's where we'll hide."

"You're quite enamored of your own brilliance, aren't you?" Remus asked, not sounding complimentary in the slightest. He glanced at Harry, who was zooming round in tiny circles on the limited floor space. A smile crossed his weathered face. "Your godfather has an overly-large head. Did you know that, Harry?"

Harry, too busy laughing, didn't seem to hear.

Sirius smirked, although again he looked as though he wasn't paying any particular amount of attention. "A Mind's Last Defense" was the oddest book he had ever seen in the wizarding world, if for no better reason than it bore no particular indication that it had been written by a wizard; it would have fit right into a Muggle library without raising any suspicions.

No moving pictures, no references to spells or magic or magical creatures or _anything _that pointed to it actually belongingin Diagon Alley. Whomever this Karlin Labeau character was, he (or, indeed, she; Sirius realized he didn't honestly know) hadn't been interested in writing for a magically-inclined audience.

_What is time? _asked the first line of the first chapter. _What is experience? What, indeed, is perception? We human beings, so proud of our intellectual prowess, cannot answer these questions. Not past their rudimentary, circular selves. Time is the erosion of existence, the great enemy of life. But what is life? Is it experience? What of the plant, which has no awareness of self? Can a thing that has no understanding of itself truly experience anything?_

"Whoever wrote this didn't get much sunlight," Sirius muttered.

"Where did you find that?" Remus asked as he reached over and picked up one of the small stack of volumes _he_ had purchased from the bookstore. "It looks old enough to have gained sentience."

"Used section," Sirius replied. "I'm not sure what this was used _for. _Suppose it would have made a good doorstop." He lifted the flimsy little book gingerly and shook it around. "Or not. This name sound familiar to you? You were always haunting the library at school. Karlin F. Labeau."

"No," Remus answered promptly. Harry went whooshing past him and very nearly careened into the door, sounding absolutely delighted to have discovered how to move in a straight line. Semi-straight line. "What's the subject?"

"That's the thing," Sirius said. "I haven't the faintest."

"Nothing for it, then. It looks like you'll have to read it. I know it sounds blasphemous." Remus held up his hands, _Advanced Potions Made Simple _lying on his lap. "But you'll just have to make the sacrifice."

"Ngh," Sirius grunted.

Remus chuckled.

_The world is finite. But the space into which the world has been placed is infinite. The human mind has no understanding of what this truly means, and therein lies the great mystery of the universe: what does it mean, to understand the limitless? What could we do, what could we accomplish, if we could but train ourselves to comprehend the incomprehensible?_

"The great mystery of the universe," Sirius mumbled to himself.

Remus was flipping through pages, searching the index of his own book. "I agree," he muttered. "What's the point of a potion recipe that requires a rune dictionary to decipher? Are these characters even part of an alphabet?"

_If time is truly a human construct, and I have no reason to believe that it is not, then what stops us from reversing our perception of it? If a man without food or money finds that his wife is pregnant, he has no recourse but to despair, for he has yet another mouth to feed. But if a man desperate for an heir to his fortune discovers the same thing, he rejoices. What has changed? Mere circumstance and perception. Why is the same not possible with time? Why can the circumstances and perception that mark the passage of time not be similarly flipped on a head? Sheer impossibility? A man who has lived his entire life in the desert would think the same of a flood. We humans must expand ourselves, reach beyond the limits of our comforts and fears, and grasp that which lies beyond._

After a handful of pages running together like this into a jumbled mess of crackpot theories and hypotheses, Sirius set Labeau's manifesto aside and scowled, leaning forward and dangling his hands between his knees. "Have you ever been searching for something, and found the answer? Except that when you found the answer, you realized it made no bloody sense?"

Remus, who now had one book in his lap, a second balanced on one knee, a third in his right hand and a sheet of parchment in his left, looked up at his friend with a kind of exquisite fury. "…Yes."

Harry continued to zip around the room, oblivious.


	10. Ill Tidings in the Air

_**I have something to say about the nature of this story's feedback. Please know that I do not discourage criticism. Quite the contrary; I encourage it. I want to know your opinions of my work, no matter what they happen to be.**_

_** Be that as it may, certain reviews of this story have gone beyond the realm of critique. If these were merely constructive, I would not feel it necessary to mention them here. This is simply what I ask for, and expect. However, I feel some of this feedback to be rather rude, and that is why I bring it up.**_

_** If you have concerns about the way I am telling this story, by all means let me know. But please bear in mind that I am often busy, and use a great deal of my free time to work on these stories, for no other reason than to bring myself, and you, entertainment. I am doing my best to add to the enjoyment of this series, and strive to ensure that each chapter is as good as I can possibly make it.**_

_** Again, this is not to say that I discourage criticism. However, I must insist that any criticism be delivered in a civil, and polite, fashion. Thank you in advance for this consideration. It means a great deal to me.**_

_** Now that that business is out of the way, let us begin:**_

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><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>Days passed. And in each of those days, more and more Death Eaters came out of the proverbial woodwork, attempting to proclaim innocence; some speeches and pleadings of mind control and general deceit were accepted, others denied, and all through the process the one question that resonated with every person was this: what next? Who next? How many of Voldemort's followers would turn tail now that he seemed dead, and seek protection from their fellows in the arms of the law?<p>

And, indeed, protection from the persistent ghost of their master.

They all knew of ghosts, and why they remained tethered to the earth—indecisive, fearful things that they were, clinging to unfinished business with the fervency of zealots, unable to accept that their time in the world had ended, and thus spelling out an eternity of uncertainty. Who had more reason to remain a part of the world than the Dark Lord? Who better to represent a ghost's most horrid faults than he? Bitter, passionate, clearly unsatisfied with what life had handed him. And fearful. Of course, Voldemort had been seized by crippling terrors.

These things and more ran their way through Albus Dumbledore's mind as he tended to his school and directed his followers. He had not left his office in three days, nor had he slept. His was a quick, agile mind, yet even his considerable endurance could not match up with so many hours. It was truly remarkable that none of this sluggishness showed on his face.

Even his current company, shrewd and critical, did not detect anything.

"What do you think, Severus?" Dumbledore asked. "Might Lord Voldemort still live?"

Snape was studying the covered portion of one arm, where a clandestine tattoo lay sleeping beneath his black sleeve. "It would be folly to assume otherwise," he muttered. "When has good fortune smiled on anyone so fully? The Dark Lord lives. In what capacity, I do not presume to know. But he lives."

"Perhaps he is merely a ghost? Spirits we can deal with. It is much more concerning if he has a body."

"I would not think it beneath him," Snape conceded, glancing at his reluctant benefactor. "He always did fear death above all things. Although, I would think that he feared being forgotten, much more than the act of death itself. Self-serving and short-sighted as he always was, I think that if the Dark Lord were presented with the option of dying in such a way as to imprint himself eternally into wizarding history, he would take it."

"Do you think so?" Dumbledore asked thoughtfully. He was not so sure; though he couldn't determine whether this was due to honest conjecture or simple fatigue. He took a long drink of tea from the mug on his desk. "Selfish as it is, a gesture like that seems to possess a nobility that I have never seen in him."

"You should know better than anyone that the Dark Lord possesses attributes beyond what can be _seen,"_ Snape replied caustically. "Sight is the most arrogant of our senses. It seeks information from the others only to validate its own conclusions, blind to all contrary opinions. Not unlike _people," _the young spy added in a lower voice.

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, offering a grin of staunch agreement. "How have your first days as an adjutant-professor gone, Severus?"

So used to the man changing subjects on a whim or fancy nobody else could detect, Snape didn't bother to comment on it. Rather, he simply said, "Well enough. Slughorn seems quite…pleased." Snape did not. He had never done well under Horace Slughorn's scrutiny, Dumbledore reflected. He thought that that had much to do with why Snape had never gone far in the Slug Club. His natural introversion had, of course, clashed with the other members; their leader in particular.

Severus Snape was a man most comfortable in quiet solitude and study. He was much more content in the company of bubbling cauldrons and pungent herbs than any breathing human. It had passed Dumbledore's thoughts more than once that if this man had found a friend or two in the latter, he might not have had to seek such solace in the former. And if that were true, he might well have become a much different—indeed, happier—man.

"I have received Horace's reports," Dumbledore mused. "He _does _seem impressed with you, Severus. I expected he would. However, he is also concerned about your conduct with some of the more…problematic students. He says that you have been quite short with them."

Snape scowled, seemed to swallow back some biting retort, and averted his eyes.

"You must remember, Severus, that not all students were born with your natural talent in the realm of potion-making. Many struggle with the art. It would be quite a problem if that were not true, wouldn't you agree? Your gifts would surely diminish in value."

"I will…work to remember that," Snape muttered, still not looking at his employer. Some color had visited his sallow cheeks. He did not sound repentant, nor even honest, but Dumbledore did note that there was a certain earnestness in the younger man's desire to teach. Perhaps he was hoping to repent? Perhaps he truly _had _learned something from the Potters' deaths? If that were so, it would almost justify the tragedy. It would be, at the very least, the silver lining of a very dark storm cloud.

"What of Peter?" Dumbledore asked slowly.

Snape's eyes finally rose again. "Nothing yet," he said. "Though I have come across news that I am sure your Order will find pertinent." Bitterness had returned in force to his voice and his general countenance. "More than one of them have set their sights on a pair of aurors by a name you will find familiar: Longbottom."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Indeed."

"I do not know my…colleagues' plans for your puppets," Snape continued, "but I think you can guess that they are not likely to be pleasant. I would suggest…defensive measures. More _apt, _I hope, than previously employed. Else the Dark Lord's regime will produce yet _another _orphan."

"I appreciate the suggestion, Severus," Dumbledore said shortly. "Do you know more of this?"

"Only the shared name of its chief agents: Lestrange."

Dumbledore's eyes flashed. Snape seemed slightly taken aback for a fraction of a moment, then regained his composure. Dumbledore said, "How did you come to know this, Severus?"

"I deliver information, Dumbledore," Snape replied sharply, "not the manner by which I procure it." His eyes flashed right back at the elderly wizard, a mixture of fury and fear swirling in their depths. "Act quickly, if you wish to keep the family intact." Snape sneered, and rose to his feet. "I know how _fond _you are of them."

He turned and left without further preamble.

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>It quickly came to the attention of both Sirius Black <em>and <em>Remus Lupin that, accomplished wizards though they might be, the conflicts and mysteries that came with raising a baby were quite beyond them both. As they made their way from one hiding place to the next, a new trial seemed to meet them at each conceivable interval. Sirius glared daggers into Remus's heart whenever he dared chuckle at the memory of the man's first attempt to change his dear godson's diaper. Remus refused to discuss even partially the night when—upon being woken by a fit of infantile coughing and wailing—the young werewolf had been so distraught that tears had burst from his eyes.

Presently, Sirius was glaring at the boy as though holding him to task for some grave crime, as he wiped baby food from his coat and thrust the spoon he was currently holding like a weapon up into Harry's face. "You see this, boy?" he snarled, sounding not unlike the great dog that lurked within him. "You are _going _to use it, or by God I'll shove it—"

"Sirius," came Remus's voice as he entered the woebegone shack that was their current abode. "You might want to keep your voice down. The neighbors—" by which he meant the people who _owned _said woebegone shack "—are beginning to suspect there might be wild animals lurking on their land. I heard talk of shotguns."

Most wizards would have stared at the man, not knowing in the slightest what that word meant. Sirius, who knew better than anyone had a right to, went slightly pale. He pointed to Harry, who was laughing and reaching out his chubby hands for Remus, who he seemed to like now. "The brat started it. Look there. He's smirking. He knows full well what he's done."

Remus chuckled. Harry's blissful expression in no way resembled a smirk. "I'm sure."

Sirius grumbled and thrust the jar of food and spoon into Remus's hands. "You do it. He's more _agreeable _with you." Was there jealousy in Sirius's voice? Remus did not know. However, as he sat down in front of Harry and held out a spoonful of mashed peas, which Harry gulped down without so much as a gurgle of complaint, he _did _spy a certain kind of anger on his companion's face, quickly buried by restlessness.

Sirius turned his attention to the door of their current lodgings, which did little to shut out the elements. "Haven't heard word from the outside in a while," he said. "Wonder when it'll be safe enough to leave. If we're lucky, they'll all have been herded up and burnt alive soon."

"Burning at the stake is rather passé, don't you think?" Remus asked. "Why not tie stones to their ankles and toss them in a river?"

"Can't hear them scream," Sirius replied without hesitation.

"You're quite the romantic, Padfoot."

"It's a curse."

They both sometimes felt guilty, when fatigue had washed away their concerns—usually after Harry succumbed to sleep for the night—because even though James Potter was dead, and Lily Potter was dead, and Peter Pettigrew was missing, Sirius and Remus found themselves rather enjoying their lives; it had been a long while since they had been on an adventure together, and the presence of the boy, in spite of his innumerable annoyances, managed to add a sense of real accomplishment to their days. They smiled, both of them, more often than not. Much more.

It seemed a betrayal, though neither said so out loud.

Sirius seemed to be mulling on this, because his expression was dark. He glanced over at the far corner opposite him, where Harry's toy broom—the Potter heir's only possession besides the clothes on his back, lent to him by Molly Weasley—leaned against the wall. Sirius thought back to a letter he'd received from Lily, after he'd gotten Harry his _first _broom. Sirius remembered the photo she'd put into the envelope along with it.

_Is this what you wanted for him, Evans? _the last Black wondered. _On the run, hidden from view in some Squib's storage shed? And what about you, Prongs? You used to tell me you hoped he'd grow up to play Quidditch. Do you think he'll play, still? After all that's happened? I can't teach him to play, any more than Moony can. Used to hang it over our heads, how helpless we were on the pitch._

Then he, by chance, turned his gaze back to Remus, who had green slop covering his face and a squalling, squirming child in his hands. "A bit of _help _might be in order!" he snarled, in spite of his warning for quiet moments ago.

Sirius laughed.

He realized that this was _exactly _what the Potters would have wanted for their boy.

The man called Padfoot's conscience eased up a bit as he moved to help his old friend extricate himself from his tormentor.

* * *

><p><strong>Three.<strong>

* * *

><p>When Dumbledore found them a day later, Sirius was perhaps the least surprised man on the planet. He watched his fearless leader approach with a sardonic expression on his face. Harry was riding his broom beside his two guardians—they were in a field in the midst of nowhere in particular, and Sirius had aims to explain the presence of a flying broom to any passersby by asking, in thoroughly disapproving tones, how much they'd had to drink, and before <em>noon, <em>no less! Shameful!—and didn't seem to have noticed the old wizard yet.

"At attention, men," Sirius said, halting. "The king-general approaches."

Dumbledore seemed thoroughly amused by Harry's mode of transportation, and was chuckling as they approached each other. "Quite spirited. Excellent. You three seem to be getting on well."

"We manage," Sirius said.

"What news, sir?" Remus asked.

Dumbledore's face turned grave in an instant, as though a switch had been thrown. Remus flinched. "That of a serious nature, I am afraid," he said in a low voice. "I have received intelligence to the effect that an attack is planned, by a number of the remaining Death Eaters, upon three of our own."

"The Longbottoms, sir?" Remus guessed, going pale.

Dumbledore nodded.

"When?" Sirius growled. "Who?"

Harry, listless because his fellows had stopped moving, amused himself by flying in circles; this seemed to be a favorite pastime of his. Dumbledore watched the boy for a long moment as he pondered. Finally he said, "As for when, I do not know. As to whom…that is why I am here."

Sirius's eyes narrowed. "…Go on," he coaxed, in a rumbling hiss.

"I have reason to believe that speed is of the essence," Dumbledore said, "and so I must ask that you do not delay in performing what I ask of you. I will arrange for young Harry to be looked after while you do this. If the need arises, I shall watch him myself. You two are nearest to their current location, I understand. There is but one more thing I would tell you, before I entreat you to search."

"And that is…?" Remus prompted.

"One of the attackers," Dumbledore replied, "is a woman you know uncomfortably well, Sirius, who goes by the name of Bellatrix Lastrange."

He might have said more, in fact looked quite prepared to say more, but he was interrupted by a dry, echoing _crack _in the morning air.

Sirius Black was gone.


	11. The House on Hollinwood Hill

_**To the anonymous reviewer who left me some concerns regarding characterization, and worried about being a nuisance; don't ever feel bad for leaving feedback. As mentioned in the previous chapter, I appreciate and encourage any critique, so long as it's presented in a polite and considerate fashion.**_

_** I've taken your concerns into consideration, but I feel that one in particular should be addressed. It was mentioned that my characterization of Sirius Black is, for all intents and purposes, a toned-down version of another character I've written extensively over the years: Seto Kaiba, from the manga/anime series Yu-Gi-Oh!**_

_** There is a simple reason for this. Both of these characters, in my opinion, share a great many traits. As the common saying goes, they were cut from the same cloth. Both are brave, protective, but bitter and arrogant men, from rich and illustrious families (with whom they do not get along), who eventually end up looking out for children who are not their own.**_

_** I have written Seto Kaiba for ten years now. The techniques and strategies I have used to do so have been ingrained in me to the point that they are second-nature. Hence, these same strategies will play a part in my portrayal of Sirius. I will do my best to illustrate and illuminate the various differences between them, but please don't be surprised if you see the similarities, as well.**_

_** With that said, let's begin this week's chapter, shall we?**_

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><p><em><strong>EDIT: As an aside, I have now received multiple reviews now espousing the idea that I screwed up by assuming Lily wouldn't know what a Walkman is, since she's Muggle-born. I'm mentioning it here just in case the latest reviewer who pointed this out (anonymously) decided to continue, and thus hasn't seen my more detailed message which I have placed at the end of that chapter.<strong>_

**_The scene takes place in 1980; the first Walkman was announced in 1979. I don't think Lily would be keeping track of Japanese Muggle technology enough to know what one was, considering she was somewhat distracted by Voldemort at the time. How did Sirius get hold of one, you ask? You'd have to ask him, but I'm pretty sure it's not beyond him to take a trip to Japan. _**

**_Sorry for those who have read this already. Feel free to ignore it._**

**_Let's move on._**

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><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>He did not know where he was going.<p>

He did not know what he was going to do. It was like a trigger had snapped in his brain at the sound of his cousin's name. Sirius did not think that anyone had ever attempted to make a mental port-key, but it certainly felt as though he'd touched one as soon as those two words, "Bellatrix Lestrange," had escaped Dumbledore's lips.

Sirius appeared on a street that he didn't recognize. The sun was just beginning to set on a collection of nondescript houses that gave no real indication of containing inhabitants. As he began to walk, his wand slipping into his hand seemingly of its own accord, Sirius closed his eyes and called upon the keen senses that had been so vital to him over the past number of months.

It was like a map on the backsides of his eyelids, like someone had drawn a bright red line along the path he was supposed to take. His pace quickened nearly to the point of a sprint, and as he half-straddled, half-vaulted over a fence, he had never been gladder to _not _be wearing the robes his fellows so preferred.

He was bolting down a stone pathway leading up to an old manor house, stately and foreboding, that didn't belong to anyone Sirius had ever met. He didn't know if it was a wizarding house or not, but something about it drew him forward, and he hadn't the time nor the inclination to doubt its importance.

Bellatrix Lestrange, more than any other Death Eater Sirius had ever met, _enjoyed _pain; of her friends, of her enemies, her own—it made no difference to her. If sadomasochism was an art form, then she was a savant. There was no telling what atrocities she and her husband would commit now that Voldemort wasn't around to temper their impulses; Sirius had heard stories, but they had been few and far between. The Dark Lord had seemed keen on making the Lestrange family his own personal attack dogs, sending them out only when he wanted to send a particularly potent message. The rest of the time, he had kept them on a tight leash; to do otherwise would have made it too easy to find them—and through them, Voldemort himself.

Bellatrix and her husband were their own masters now.

The very thought congealed Sirius's blood and set his mind on fire.

Sirius reached the front double-doors of the house, and was barely able to hold back his apprehension and fury enough to open them slowly. He slipped himself into an entryway that was as empty as it was vast. Each step echoed as though he'd settled into the limestone corridors of a tomb.

The transformation took place before he'd had time to think about it; one moment he was sneaking along on two feet, the next he was prowling on four. The huge black dog made its way swiftly through the empty halls, following the low rumble of voices caught by its dangerously sharp ears.

When those ears picked up the scream, the dog went barreling down a long, dark corridor without any heed to stealth. Another, blood-boiling scream sent a shock through the hulking black body that escaped in the form of a feral, rabid growl. In the end, this was what saved Sirius's life, as the tall, lanky, hooded figure standing guard was in no way prepared for a snarling, raging dog to come bursting into the room, and leaped backward out of the way instead of attacking immediately.

The screams were deafening.

A woman with wild black hair was laughing in the center of the room.

Sirius careened into her, and sent her flying headfirst into the wall. As Bellatrix slumped, unconscious, to the floor, Sirius slipped up onto his own two feet, wand grasped tightly in one white-knuckled fist.

"Sorry, Bella," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Guess I was a bit too enthusiastic." He turned to face the three black-clad figures behind him, still conscious and fast overcoming the shock of his appearance.

To anyone doubting that the cackling woman crumpled on the floor shared blood with her attacker, the grin that spread on Sirius's face would have made it all too clear.

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>For a man with a wooden leg, Alastor Moody was hard to keep up with. He'd met up with Remus not long after Dumbledore had directed him to the place where the Longbottoms were supposed to be hiding out: some five or six miles east of their current location lay the abandoned homestead of a wealthy witch, who was currently living on another continent,<p>

"Where are you going?" Remus had asked as Dumbledore scooped up Harry and his toy broom. "Aren't you coming with us, sir?"

"There are delicate matters I must attend to at the moment, Remus," Dumbledore had replied quickly, evasively. "Go, quickly. I will send an auror to assist you."

"What about Sirius?"

"I'm sure you'll find him there." Some knowledge of which Remus was unaware had seemed to nest in the ancient wizard's eyes as he'd said this. "Go, quickly. Sirius never was one for strategy." He and Harry vanished the next moment.

Moody had caught up with Remus a few minutes later, and they didn't speak as they finally set foot on the old witch's estate, moving as quickly and silently as they could. When they entered the place and heard the telltale sounds of conflict from above their heads, they broke into an outright run. Moody's wooden leg pounded like a judge's gavel on the hardwood floors.

Old and crippled as he was, Moody made it to the master bedroom first. Remus came rushing in behind him to see Sirius in the midst of a firefight with three masked and hooded figures, all men by the look of them. Curses shot through the air like glowing, flaming birds of prey: green and red and deep purple. Sirius hopped up onto the bed, then leaped to the side as a jet of what looked like lightning made a beeline for his head. He kicked an ottoman out into the air that caught one of the men in the midriff, ripped the curtain off the sliding glass window leading out onto a side balcony, and threw it in front of him, using it as cover as he dropped to a knee and rolled into a corner, coming up with a curse that knocked another of his opponents flat on his backside.

Sirius laughed—a sharp, barking laugh that sounded about as mirthful as a rusted guillotine—looking like he was venting every bit of grief and anger he'd ever felt in his life on these three Death Eaters, and it was only his manic determination and razor-wire reflexes that were keeping him alive.

He didn't see the woman with the wild black hair rising slowly to her feet behind him. Before Sirius had even noticed his allies, before he had the chance to capitalize on his slight advantage, before Remus or Moody even had the time to raise their own wands to assist him, blinding white light exploded into Sirius's back and sent him straight into the wall. He collapsed in a heap onto the floor.

Bellatrix Lestrange rose all the way to her feet.

Moody moved, and Remus moved with him.

Huddled against a far corner, still shaking and twitching spasmodically, Frank and Alice Longbottom lay unconscious on the floor. Somewhere beneath the laughter, behind the grunts and shouts of exertion and the explosions of magic, a baby was crying.

* * *

><p><strong>Three.<strong>

* * *

><p>One of the hooded men had the singular misfortune of having Moody for his opponent. He was grizzled, he was scarred, traumatized and paranoid, but Alastor Moody had another reputation, and only the most foolhardy of Death Eaters would have ignored it.<p>

Without a word, without any indication whatsoever, Moody's wand erupted with a nova of white-hot power so condensed that it left a deep, scorched indentation on the wall behind its target. The black figure, crouched and breathing harshly, started to move. But Remus Lupin had learned from his friend's example, and sent a desk flying into the man's face. Splinters and sheets of parchment rained down and littered the floor.

The thinnest of the masked men made for the window, to regroup or escape, and Moody's curses followed him. He curled into a ball and let the momentum of one of the blasts send him shoulder-first into the glass, and fell silently to the garden below. The old auror's magical eye seemed to follow the man for a moment before turning its attention on Bellatrix.

The rest of the fight, if that's what it could honestly be called, went by in such a blur that Remus would realize later that he couldn't recall how many people had been in the room. He seemed to wake from a dream, a nightmare so vivid that it was still ringing in his ears, and found himself seated on a blackened, cracked, scratched and smoking floor, surrounded by the ruins of what had once been a bedroom.

The young werewolf struggled to his feet. He saw Moody, crouched over two figures. The four Death Eaters were nowhere to be found; Remus asked after them, blinking wearily.

"I'll catch up with _them _in a minute," Moody growled, with such grim finality that Remus had no doubt of it. "See to the boy."

Remus blinked. "W-What?"

"The _boy, _Lupin!" At this point, Remus realized that he heard crying in another room. Adjacent to the impromptu battlefield was another bedroom, this one smaller and with no furnishings other than a small bed. Huddled in a blanket on the floor was a boy, about Harry's age, howling his tiny lungs out.

"Neville," Remus whispered, and went to him.

The child struggled, but not very hard. Remus stepped back into the master bedroom with the bundle in tow, thinking that this felt entirely too familiar, just as Moody was rising to his feet.

"Don't know how long those Death Eaters were at them," Moody rumbled, gesturing to Neville's parents, "but they're beyond anything I can do." He turned to face Remus. "When that great idiot wakes up, take him and the boy and send word to the Order. I'll do what I can to…calm them."

Frank and Alice Longbottom were shaking uncontrollably, and Remus found it painful to look at them. He soothed the crying boy in his arms as best he could, and shuffled over to Sirius, who was beginning to stir.

* * *

><p><strong>Four.<strong>

* * *

><p>His vision was a long while in coming back to him.<p>

Blinking several times, trying vainly to rid himself of the fuzziness, Sirius saw a figure. A black figure, with pale skin. The face was sharp, angular, but somehow undefined. All he could see were red eyes, glowing like twin coals on either side of a long nose, and a white streak through its pale brown hair.

Then he blinked again, and realized he was looking up at Remus.

"Where's the damn tank that hit me…?" Sirius hissed, grimacing as he tried to sit up. Remus pushed him back down.

"You're an idiot," came the soft, reserved reply.

"Save your flattery for someone else, Moony," Sirius muttered. He finally managed to right himself without sending little lances of agony through his spine. "Where are they? Where's the bodies? I want that little wh—"

"Shut up about _them," _came a particularly sharp growl from somewhere behind Remus. "You're lucky your head's still attached to your fool neck." Clunk, clunk, clunk. The hunched and haggard form of Alastor Moody swam into his sights. "What the blue devil possessed you to charge in halfcocked against four armed Death Eaters?"

"I thought my striking good looks would surprise them," Sirius replied caustically, staring blankly at the veteran auror. "Hear told I'm right charming when I've a mind to be."

Moody seemed less than amused. His normal eye narrowed suspiciously. "And the boy? What about him?"

"Dumbledore," Sirius said. "I'm not _that _stupid. I wouldn't bring _him _into this."

"If we hadn't shown up when we did," Remus murmured softly, "you may well have died tonight. They may be spineless lemmings with barely enough talent pooled together to boil an egg," he added, seeing that Sirius was about to speak, "but four against one are long odds, even for you. What, exactly, would happen to Harry then? _I _can't well look after him myself. I have to spend a week out of every month as far away from him as humanly possible."

Sirius flinched as he ran a hand through his hair. He glanced out the broken window into the night sky; the moon was a blinding half-disc staring down at him. "If I should fall in battle," he started with a half-mocking lilt, then noticed the darkness in Remus's gaze, "…plenty of people will still be around to look after him."

"Indeed," Remus said. "He _does _have that aunt and uncle in Surrey, doesn't he?" Sirius's face turned a pale shade of green. "If you want to be that boy's godfather, you're going to have to start looking after yourself, as much as him. That means unnecessary risks are no longer acceptable. Even if they might be…entertaining."

"This is all very touching," Moody interjected, "but I wasn't talking about Harry Potter. I was talking about _him." _His magical eye swiveled over to regard Neville Longbottom, sleeping fitfully on the sole clean patch of floor left in the room. "The way you were hopping around like a demented frog, tossing curses around like Christmas presents, you'd have even damn well noticed if the whole house had come down on his head?"

This had Sirius on the defensive. "You don't duel with Death Eaters like a proper gentleman unless you're looking for a gravestone to sleep under. You know that better than any of us."

Moody's eyes, both of them, flashed with wrath. "Don't give me excuses, Black!" he snarled. "I know your type. A proper Gryffindor, proud and loyal and _stupid. _Your recklessness might have cost three innocent lives, _and _your own, not that that's any big loss if _this _is how you're going to fight the Dark Lord."

"They lived," Sirius shot back.

_"This _time!" Moody nearly roared. "Maybe _you're _willing to gamble with the lives of the people we're trying to protect in this war, but I'm not. Do yourself a favor and don't make yourself an _obstacle. _Now get out of here and make yourself useful."

"How?" Sirius dared, looking hurt, angry, and guilty.

"Figure it out. I'm not here to hold your hand."

The part of it all that drove the point home, the part of it that made Moody's words repeat themselves in Sirius's mind long after he left the building in search of Dumbledore, was the fact that Remus stayed stone-silent and stoic.

He didn't say a word until the next morning, when he woke Sirius and told him it was time to get moving.

* * *

><p><em><strong>I know that you were probably expecting me to save the Longbottoms. What's the point of putting it in, if I'm not going to fix things? I beg patience, Gentle Readers. Things are not quite as similar as they seem.<strong>_

_** While the title of this story is a rather overt reference to the Butterfly Effect, and may give the impression that I intend to change everything, that's not quite what I'm going for. Some parts of canon are necessary, and the way I've handled this situation is part of that.**_

_** Things will unfold in future chapters; of that, you can be sure.**_

_** Until next time, folks. Take it easy.**_


	12. Suffer the Little Children

_**I'm not feeling well, which is one reason why this chapter is coming out a bit early. If there are errors in this, typos or otherwise, I'll get to them when I'm feeling better. My notes this time will be brief, not only because I am sick but because this chapter is somewhat shorter than usual.**_

_** It might be obvious to most if not all of you reading this that the title of this story is a reference to the Butterfly Effect—that is, the smallest of events can set the biggest into motion; a butterfly flapping its wings on one side of the planet can cause a tsunami on the other. It's a nice metaphor for what I'm doing here, I think, and has been a driving theme of the story so far.**_

_** That said, the butterflies are beginning to fly.**_

_** Enjoy.**_

* * *

><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>"You little <em>worm!" <em>a female voice screeched with all the trappings of absolute insanity. "Vile betrayer! How _dare _you show your face to me? How _dare _you touch me? I should kill you where you stand!"

A male voice, quiet and nervous and not at all used to tones of command, nonetheless tried: "…If you like, I c-can…call Moody back here, and you can t-try your luck with…him."

"You threaten? _You? _What stupidity is this? What trick? Do you think you can…do you _truly _think that you can intimidate me?"

"He's caught your husband." The male voice gained in confidence when the female voice did not reply. "He's caught your brother, and Crouch. They know you were with them. S-Sirius and Remus know. Dumbledore knows. They'll be…looking for you."

"They were already looking for me." A scoff that wasn't as confident as it should have been.

"If not for me, you would be with them. And even you can't handle Alastor Moody, especially with other members of the Order with him."

"So I owe you now. That is what you mean to say to me?"

"You…owe me courtesy. Betrayer? No. Something else was protecting the boy. I had nothing to do with what happened to His Lordship. I did what no one else could. I showed them to him. I delivered them to him. If they had extra defenses that no one saw fit to tell, how is that _my _betrayal?"

Suspicious. Angry. Almost sulking. No reply.

"We…you and I…know better than the others. We know he is too strong to die. The others…the others are ignorant. Let us _find _him. Let us bring him back to us. We'll show His Lordship that we, and no others, are loyal."

Where had this come from? Loyalty? The owner of those words did not know. Some part of him thought that he knew, better than anyone, what Severus Snape knew: good fortune could not be trusted. He was not dead. The Dark Lord was eternal. They had sold their souls, and salvation was too good to hope for. So why pretend? Why hope? Why not, instead, _use _the time? Why not _use _the opportunity?

With this woman in front of him…it made sense.

It seemed the most golden chance he could ever hope for.

The woman's eyes seemed to drink in the idea, and he knew he had won her.

Bellatrix Lestrange let a savage little grin spread on her lips. "…You speak truth, Wormtail. Fine, then. Show me that you have not betrayed our master."

Peter Pettigrew did not believe that this woman's approval was anything to be proud of, but it was better than nothing. He said, "We know there is a spy in our midst. We know that information has reached Dumbledore. The Order found you. It nearly found me."

"First order of business?" Bellatrix asked. "Find the spy?"

"Something like that," Peter said. "What say we turn the tables? Instill a spy of our own? They're searching for me. They want to find me. They want to know where I am, and what's happened to me. Let me go back to them. Dumbledore will never believe that His Lordship is gone until he has proof. He'll keep searching. Let _him _do our work for us."

She looked suspicious again. "It sounds to me like you are finding an excuse to scurry back to your old friends, Wormtail."

"Tell me you wouldn't use Sirius, if you thought you could," Peter returned, unable to keep the nervousness out of his voice at the murderous fire that lit in Bellatrix's eyes at the sound of that name. "These are resources. We can use them, the same as we did when His Lordship was with us. Use them to find him. Let them think we seek to kill him."

"…I do not yet trust you, Wormtail." There was a long silence as she considered him. "Go, then. Return to your Order. Play the victim, and let them think that you have escaped us." The grin returned. "But I must play the part, don't you think? It won't do for them to think I do not target _you, _the same as I do _them. _After all…you speak of returning to the enemy."

Peter's hope of getting out of this unscathed sank into his shoes, and he quailed. "B-B…Bellatrix…?"

"How else could your secret have come to us?" Bellatrix continued, her face flushed with fever. "How else could we have convinced a _loyal member _of the Order to give us information? The Dark Lord must have _tortured _the information out of you. If you come back to them in good health…well. That won't seem very convincing, will it?"

What color remained in Peter's face disappeared.

Bellatrix caressed her wand lovingly. Seductively. "Let us see how brave you are…Gryffindor."

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>It wasn't unusual for Sirius Black to be sitting in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts. He had made it a school-time mission to break at least every written rule once per year. The strange part was for him to look sorry.<p>

But there he sat, dejected and restless, hands dangling between his knees and his head down as he stared at the floor. His curtain of black hair covered his haggard face. When Harry reached over and grabbed hold of it, cooing curiously, the smile that spread on Sirius's face looked much more like a snarl.

Neville was hitting the floor with a toy wand, gurgling as though intent on casting a spell. When this didn't work, he swung harder, and it bounced out of his hand. The youngest member of the Longbottom family stared openly as his toy struck the wall and clattered to the floor, then threw up his arms like he'd won something. Harry looked up at Sirius, perhaps trying to figure out what was going through his godfather's mind, but eventually gave up. He went back to Neville and began embarking on a conversation that only the two of them seemed to understand.

Dumbledore walked in some time later, Augusta Longbottom looking stern but pale just behind him. Sirius glanced over at them. "Kids are all right," he murmured. "Don't seem to know anything's…wrong." This report delivered, he trailed off and turned back to silent musings.

Augusta sat down in an empty chair near Sirius, a rare smile rising on her lips as she regarded her grandson. Dumbledore stepped over to his desk, took his imperial seat behind it, and tented his fingers in front of him as he looked at the both of them. When he spoke, he sounded as calm and collected as he always did, and went about the business of discussing the attack on Hollinwood Hill the same way he would have delivered a start-of-term speech to his students: "Frank and Alice have been transported to St. Mungo's. Alastor tells me that he has managed to capture three of the four Death Eaters responsible for this." He locked eyes with Sirius. "Bellatrix Lestrange remains free."

Sirius grimaced, but did not speak.

"Before I go further," Dumbledore continued, still looking at Sirius, "I would like you to give me a full account of what happened last night."

The last Black was used to telling half-truths in this office. It took him a long while to decide that it wouldn't do this time. With a spasmodic glance at Augusta, he began to talk. He told them everything, starting from his apparition and ending with his arrival at the old castle that had been his only real home.

"How long have you been able to transform into a dog, Sirius?" Dumbledore asked calmly.

Sirius stared at the man. "About five years, give or take."

"It will take some doing," Dumbledore replied, cool as ever but with a certain edge to his voice now, "but I believe I should be able to smooth things over at the ministry and keep you out of Azkaban. I must ask that you undergo registration, however. You understand this."

Eyes narrowing, Sirius said, "I'd hoped to keep that information private."

"Then you might have refrained from showcasing your ability in front of four prominent Death Eaters," Dumbledore replied offhandedly. "Your status as an Animagus will no longer be private, I'm afraid, no matter what you or I have to say on the subject." He now turned his attention away. "Augusta," he said, "I trust you will be able to look after Neville while his parents are being cared for."

"Of course."

Silence.

"…Missus Longbottom," Sirius finally said. "Ah…" All eyes were on him now, even Neville's and Harry's. He fidgeted, let out a disgusted sigh, and stood up. He bowed his head in deference to her. "I wanted to say…I'm sorry for everything. The way I acted, I may well have killed them. There's no excuse for my…" he seemed to be searching for the right word, then settled on "…recklessness. I hope that you can forgive my stupidity."

He raised his eyes after a moment, daring to look at the woman, who was studying him. Augusta's face was unreadable. Her mouth twitched, and she finally stood up herself. Sirius went stiff as she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a hug. "Stupid child," she said shakily. "Were it not for your stupidity…my son, my daughter, and my grandson would be dead."

Dumbledore was last to stand.

He said, "Quite right. But do well to remember what Alastor and Remus have told you: you are fighting for more than one life now. In every decision you make, and every battle you take part in, you must think of Harry. Remember, as I am sure you will, that you are now his only parent."

Sirius glanced down at his godson as Augusta stepped away and gathered Neville in her arms. Sirius sighed, reached down, and picked Harry up, looking at him quizzically. "You're going to be the death of me, boy. Do you know that?"

Harry grinned at him, as if he understood and found it funny.

Sirius let out an involuntary chuckle, and stole one last glance at Augusta as she turned to leave; she gave him a conspiratorial, and thoroughly out-of-character, wink.

* * *

><p><strong>Three.<strong>

* * *

><p>The next time Remus Lupin saw Sirius and Harry, they were hunched over on a riverbank in the middle of a Muggle campground; Sirius was washing something, while Harry played with the water, every so often splashing his godfather and giggling.<p>

Sirius was bare from the waist up, and as Remus approached, he realized that the man was scrubbing a shirt. "The next time you throw up on me, I'm returning the favor," Sirius growled, "and keep your distance, would-be-Remus, until I have a chance to indulge paranoia."

Remus stopped moving, his stance easy and his hands slipped into his pockets.

Sirius finally stood up, spread out the soaking shirt, looked round, and groaned. Sighing, he wrung the garment free of excess water and tucked the end of it behind his belt, letting it hang against one leg. He turned, wand in hand. "All right," he said, "quiz time: who's my least-favorite relative?"

Remus raised an eyebrow. "You don't have one. You keep telling anyone you can that you _choose _family, and related to anyone you damn well like."

Sirius relaxed. "Not much use hiding if it's so easy for people to find us," he remarked. He glanced down at Harry, and picked the boy up before he went head-first into the river, as he'd been reaching for a particularly shiny rock. Kneeling down, Sirius picked up the rock and handed it to his godson, who squealed with delight and promptly put it into his mouth. "Oh, for God's sake!" Sirius rolled his eyes and plucked the offending object out of Harry's reach. "No," he said, as though speaking to a pet, when Harry made a desperate grab for the rock. _"No. _You hear me, brat? You don't. Eat. Rocks." He scowled, trying to look menacing. "Say it. 'I don't eat rocks.' _Say it, _boy."

"Dun…ee…wah," Harry declared.

Remus snickered loudly, covering his mouth with one hand. Sirius did no better, grinning outright and handing the rock over. "I'll let you off with a warning this time. Manipulative little snot." Harry waited until Sirius was looking at Remus, then began inching the rock toward his lips.

"Harry," Remus said, his inflection rising. Harry blinked, then tried to hide his bauble behind his back. Sirius glared at him, clearly suspicious.

Harry stared innocently at him. "Dun ee wah," he repeated.

"I'm watching you," Sirius warned.

"Where are you camped?" Remus asked after a while.

Sirius gestured. "Just back there. Borrowed a Muggle tent from Arthur on the way here." At Remus's searching look, he added, "What? Can't be too cautious. We're trying to blend in, right? Besides…feels like cheating otherwise."

"How rustic," Remus murmured.

"Let's go," Sirius said, shifting his grip on Harry so that the boy was hanging over his godfather's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Remus took the rock from Harry's mouth as he fell into step beside them, and slipped it into a pocket.


	13. I've Been Here Before

_**I apologize for the day's delay in getting this up. I'm moving into an apartment soon, and yesterday was one of the few days my roommate and I had to get together and start planning things out. I tried to get this finished before midnight, but realized that the quality was dropping entirely too quickly. I decided to wait, rather than sacrifice standards.**_

_** This chapter is a bit strange; things are beginning to weave together, and I'm starting to realize that there's more complexity (a lot more) to this plot than I'd bargained for. I hope that I'm up to it, and that you enjoy it.**_

_** Let's begin, shall we?**_

* * *

><p><strong>One<strong>

* * *

><p>He would never, to the end of his days, fully understand what he felt on the day that Peter "Wormtail" Pettigrew turned up, shaking and whimpering and more-than-half-dead—unable to speak or walk—on the grounds of Hogwarts school.<p>

Sirius Black had never been known for his displays of emotion. At his happiest, there was a spring in his step and a glow in his eyes; at his angriest, there was a snarl on his lips—but there was never anything particular to show for it. This wasn't to say that he didn't feel; merely to say that his emotions were often muted, and hidden.

There were a few situations he could remember throughout his life, certain circumstances, where he had questioned his own feelings; his brother's birthdays were a few of those circumstances, when he'd known that he was _supposed _to be happy but…well, wasn't. And he knew that this was another one of those times. Sirius knew that he was supposed to be relieved, and happy, to see that one of his best friends—whom he'd thought dead—was alive and on the mend.

But all he was…was disgusted.

"Don't you think you're being too hard on him?" Remus asked, with a look on his face that normally would have curbed Sirius's anger; it was a mix of condemnation—he clearly disapproved of his fellow Marauder's reaction—and fear. Like the huge black dog lurking inside Sirius was the _real _danger, and no werewolf with half a brain would be caught dead standing in its way.

"Yes," Sirius admitted, but it did nothing to calm him; his blood still boiled. "Good Lord, Remus, what do you take me for? You think growing up with _my _family, I don't know what the Cruciatus Curse can do to a man? The fact he's _alive _is a bloody miracle."

A _truly _bloody miracle, he thought, remembering the kind of shape the man was in.

"But…?" Remus prompted.

"I may not know Death Eaters as a…as a…species," Sirius said, "but I've known my fair share of them. I'm _related _to far too many of them. They don't let their victims off easy. So how is it Peter escaped? You want to tell me they caught him, tortured the Potters' location out of him, then…let him go?"

"Evidently," Remus said. "If you want more details, you'll have to ask Peter…if he wakes up." The condemnation, the reproach, was written clearly in his expression now, and the beginnings of real anger. Sirius saw it, noted it, and ignored it. He knew the line of thinking down which he was currently going was not only dangerous, but _wrong. _Loyalty and bravery; wasn't that what he'd grown up believing? What good did those words do him if he abandoned them this easily?

If he was doubting the loyalty of a stalwart friend who'd been at his side for so many years…

Has_ he been at your side? _some voice inside of him asked, unbidden and confusing. _Look back on your time with him. Think. When has Peter ever shown the kind of loyalty that you showed him?_

Sirius hated these questions; hated them because they seemed so blasphemous, and yet he couldn't shake them. They had been springing up into the forefront of his thoughts ever since the news had come, and now—as he waited for news of Wormtail's condition—he was no longer able to muster up the courage and the willpower to silence them. They flitted through him like wisps of vapor, stinging and smoking and refusing to let him alone; like they were voiced by a separate person, someone removed from himself.

Now Remus looked insulted, as though the struggle that was written on Sirius's face was a personal affront to _him…_and really, that was how it should be. Hadn't Sirius always said that a person who didn't trust his friends was no better than an enemy? That had been the guiding light of his existence.

Cold certainty dictated, though, that it didn't matter if Sirius was being a hypocrite. It didn't matter that the thoughts going through his mind right now were disgusting; the fact was, they were there.

_Peter should be dead right now, _Sirius thought, allowing himself to put words to his belief for the first time. _If he were truly the man I thought he was, then he would have held out on revealing the secret until he damn well died. But he didn't. He let go, and gave in, early enough to live. Weak. Insufferably, damningly weak._

But then, on the heels of that horrid realization, another:

_I should have known better. I should have understood this long before now. It was only because I lied to myself, made myself believe he would be strong enough to live up to our expectations, that he was given the chance to fail. This is my fault._

The anger left him, replaced by stark terror, and Remus's indignation left him in favor of confusion.

"…This is my fault," Sirius repeated, staring at the floor.

* * *

><p><strong>Two<strong>

* * *

><p>Sirius had no way of knowing that someone else shared his doubts.<p>

Two people, in fact.

Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape sat on either side of the Headmaster's desk, as often they did these days, staring at one another and trying to read answers to some unspoken question on each other's face. It did not seem to be working well, because both looked just as perplexed and nonplussed as when they'd entered the room.

"What do you make of this development, Severus?" Dumbledore broke the silence.

"It feels…convenient," Snape replied.

"A message was left with him," Dumbledore mused, talking mostly to himself. "Unsigned, but we believe it was written by the illustrious Madam Lestrange. Now that his…information has been given, Peter Pettigrew is no longer worth anything to the Death Eaters. He is not even worth the effort to kill."

Snape's eyes narrowed, his lip curled, and he said, "If it _was _written by Lestrange, then she is lying. Either lying, or being forced to keep him alive by someone more powerful than she. I have seen the sorts of victims that woman has taken before. She does not discriminate. Left to her own devices, she would have killed Pettigrew, and she would have relished the doing, regardless of how much he is…worth."

Dumbledore began nodding halfway through Snape's statement, and it was clear by the look on his face now that he agreed. He said, "Have you had any word as to where Missus Lestrange is currently located?" There was a certain quaintness, a politeness, in the way he addressed a madwoman that sent shivers down Snape's spine, but he did not comment on it.

He said, "None. She hides better than a rat when she gets it into her head not to be found. I'm…working on it. Do you have any particular…orders, Headmaster, regarding what I should do when that time comes?"

Sardonic. Biting. Bitter.

Dumbledore beamed. "Nothing, Severus. Do not let her think you are anything less than loyal to her cause. Whether she is working on behalf of the Death Eaters, Voldemort, or her own self-interest, see to it that you are in a position to…help."

Snape nodded curtly, valiantly hiding his disgust at the idea of helping a Lestrange. There was no love lost between Severus Snape and those who shared the Dark Mark with him; he had been disillusioned some time ago. His loyalty, such as it was, had only been for the Dark Lord himself, and even that had…waned. As far as he was concerned, the lot of them could have drowned in a lake, and he wouldn't have had the common decency to flush them out and bury them.

Snape's mouth was working; he had a question on his lips, a burning question like acid biting at his tongue. He was inclined to swallow it back and deal with the ulcer, but at the questioning glance from Dumbledore, he closed his eyes, bit back a curse, and said,

"…How fares the boy?"

"Harry?" Dumbledore asked. Something approaching real pleasure met the old wizard's face, and he looked fatherly. "Quite well. Despite all appearances to the contrary, he is being cared for most adequately." A chuckle. "He seems most fond of his new uncles, I must say." Was there a malicious edge to his face now? Snape couldn't tell. "Would you care to meet him, Severus? After all...we both have reason to believe that you are the only reason he is alive…don't we?"

Snape could never tell when the Headmaster was mocking him.

He flinched violently and turned his eyes away. "No. I'm sure I will have plenty of time to…become acquainted once he comes of age."

"Speaking of that," Dumbledore said, as though he had been waiting for just that segue, "I am most pleased with Professor Slughorn's latest reports. He says that you are doing much better at…curbing your temper with the less able students. Excellent. Keep that up. A teacher must be patient."

Severus nodded, sneering. "Of course."

"Oh, come now, Severus. There is real magic in teaching. And it seems to me that you have the touch, if you would but give yourself leave to pursue it. Not all work has to be soul-rending, you know."

Snape stood up. "If we are finished here, Headmaster, I've a class to prepare. Slughorn seems convinced that I am ready to lead on my own."

"I'm sure he is quite right." Dumbledore gave a jaunty little salute. "Best of luck to you, Severus."

* * *

><p><strong>Three<strong>

* * *

><p>"Do you have a moment?"<p>

The question, spoken with the raw professionalism that so defined its owner, struck Sirius like a switch, and he glanced at Minerva McGonagall sheepishly, forgetting for a moment that he was no longer a student in her house. He half-expected her to give him detention.

Remus waved a dismissive hand. "I'll take Harry and show him the grounds. He should like that."

Sirius nodded, stood, and gestured for his old teacher to lead the way. She brought him to her own classroom, which was empty, and Sirius sat atop one of the desks when she gestured. "What can I do for you, Professor?"

"You know that Peter Pettigrew is in grave condition," McGonagall stated, "and that we are unsure whether he will regain consciousness. Or, if he _does, _whether or not he will be fit to speak."

"It would have taken a lot to get the secret out of him," Sirius said flatly, even though he didn't really believe that. McGonagall seemed to sense that doubt, because she leveled a suspicious glare on him. His face remained impassive. It was bad enough that Remus knew his doubts; he wasn't about to broadcast them to the entire Order.

"I'm sure," came the reply. For a wonder, McGonagall didn't sound quite so severe anymore. Her voice seemed to have softened, and perhaps for the first time Sirius saw the softer side of his old head of house, which Remus had often attempted—and failed—to convince his friends was in her. "I am going to ask a delicate question, delivered to me by the Headmaster. I have no wish to entertain this notion. However, you always had a sharp eye, even when you refused to use it efficiently or practically." Sirius felt sheepish again, but he did not let it show. "Therefore he deemed you the best person to ask: how certain are you that the Potters' location was tortured out of him?"

Sirius was not so blind to misunderstand that the surge of indignant anger that welled up in him was only because he'd been asking that question so often of himself. He bit back the instinctual reply and said instead, with the greatest of efforts to remain calm, "…What do you mean by that, Professor?"

"The only way the Fidelius Charm can be broken, as I am sure you know, is if the Secret-Keeper gives up the information himself. Dumbledore believes that there are only two options to consider: either Pettigrew gave it up under torture or coercion, or…" She left the rest unsaid, because she could read that he understood on his face. His attempt to keep his doubts secret had failed rather miserably.

Whatever it was within him that harbored doubts about Peter seemed to have taken hold of him. He said, "I don't know, Professor. I hate myself for saying it, but I don't know. It was a mistake to place this on Peter's shoulders. We, James and Lily and I, should have known better."

"Was Remus Lupin not involved in this decision, then?"

"No. We had to act quickly, and we couldn't get hold of him in time." It was a smooth lie, the sort he had delivered so many times as a student, but it felt like little shards of glass ripping through his tongue as he said it.

"The Headmaster wishes for you to keep your mind open and your senses alert," McGonagall said with an air of finality, and Sirius realized that he was being given orders by the leader of his Order. "And he wishes for you to report to him, if you think he is…dangerous."

Hearing someone else say it made Sirius's own treacherous thoughts all the more damning. But that part of him, that separate entity sitting right on the outskirts of his mind, was singing vindication. He was at war with himself, and it struck him that if he wasn't careful, thoughts like these would drive him mad.

"I will," Sirius said slowly, blankly, and stood up. He strode over to the door, put a hand on the knob. "Professor…doesn't it go against everything our house stands for, to be doing this? To…to doubt him?"

She didn't answer immediately.

He turned to look at her, and saw conflict on her regal face.

She said, "It does. I am not proud to give you such instructions. But if it means the safety of our people…pride is a small price to pay."

Sirius closed his eyes. "Yes. I…suppose it is."

He left.

* * *

><p><strong>Four<strong>

* * *

><p>By hook or by crook, by providence or fate or the devil's gleeful joke, Sirius Black and Severus Snape passed each other in the halls of their old school.<p>

The assistant professor and the restless drifter took several steps past each other before pulling themselves out of their thoughts long enough to realize they'd passed an enemy. They whirled on each other at the same moment, and it was a wonder that neither had drawn a weapon.

"Black," Snape sneered, like he was announcing the color of his hatred for the man in front of him.

Sirius was about to smirk, about to laugh and say, "Snivellus," but something stopped him. That _other, _that presence outside of his mind, leaped up and screeched at him to stop. To wait. To calculate. It was not lost on him that whatever this presence was, the fact that it was asking him to show doubt to a friend and civility to an enemy made him wonder if it wasn't some nefarious influence being worked on him.

But then he heard Remus's voice: _Being civil to someone you don't like isn't a betrayal, Padfoot; it's being an adult._

"It's like he's my bloody conscience," Sirius muttered under his breath.

"Pardon me?" Severus all but snarled.

It was at that moment that Sirius made a decision that would change the course of his life forever: he decided to assuage the voices inside of him, to quiet the _other _and to make Remus proud. He remembered a joke Lily had told him once, and then remembered that she had once been friendly with this man. He said, a wistful smile rising on his lips, "Why so serious?"

Snape blinked. "…What?"

"Nothing. What brings you here, Snape? Aching nostalgia?"

There was a beat of tense silence as Snape stared at his old nemesis. "Hardly," he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you must know, Black, I am _working."_

"Oh," Sirius's eyebrows went up, and he slipped his hands into his pockets. "Shaping up to replace Filch, are you? He _is _getting old. And he's _always _been cranky. The old boy could use a vacation."

Snape scowled. "Shouldn't you be in the hospital wing?"

"Thought so. _Just _like Filch. You even have the facial expression right. Well done."

He could see Remus in his mind's eye, giving him a stern look. _That's not exactly civil, Sirius. _And he knew he was in trouble because the phantom was using his real name. That was always a warning sign.

"I am a _professor," _Snape said slowly.

Sirius quirked an eyebrow. "Somehow can't picture you teaching. You'll forgive me if I don't jump at the chance to attend classes, right?"

_Sirius, for the love of all that is good in the world, would you _try _for once?_

Snape's eyes were flaring, his mouth a thin gash.

Sirius sighed. "Well, then. I suppose if you're stepping up in the world, I ought to congratulate you. After all, can't let you get one up on me. Wouldn't do for my reputation. So, I'll be nice." He straightened. "Evans always told me you were a decent sort when you wanted to be." Snape flinched. Sirius took a moment to wonder why he always used that name for Lily Potter, even now, then ignored it. It didn't matter. "I suppose I owe her, for all she put up with, right? Might be too little, too late. But then again, better late than never.

"I've heard rumors, nasty rumors, but Dumbledore says they're unsubstantiated. And besides, you've been cleared, right? If the whole wide Ministry thinks you're innocent, who am I to doubt them?" Snape's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but Sirius maintained a blissfully oblivious expression. "We're adults, right? What say we act like it? For the sake of future generations, and all that."

Sirius held out a hand; Snape stared at it like it was a dead animal.

But eventually, he shook it. He glared into Sirius's eyes and said, "You never fail to infuriate me, Black."

"At least I succeeded at _something." _Snape scoffed, whirled on a heel, and stalked off down the hall. Sirius waved heartily. "Well. Bye, then, Professor! Good luck! Don't poison anyone without permission!"

When he found Remus outside at the edge of the lake, pointing out the giant squid while Harry watched the water, Sirius was grinning. Werewolf and godson turned to watch him approach, and Remus looked…confused, to say the least.

"I've never seen you so pleased after speaking to Professor McGonagall."

"Ran into an old friend in the hall." Sirius chuckled. "Did you know Snape's teaching now?"

Remus blinked. The last he knew, Sirius had been one of a great number who fully believed that Severus Snape was a Death Eater. By now, of course, he had been cleared of any such charges, but…still. Sirius Black had never been one for forgiveness. He said, "This _pleases _you? I would have guessed you would have beaten him to a bloody stump. Isn't that what you said you'd do, not a month ago?"

"Something came over me," Sirius said truthfully. "Besides…I think you're onto something, old boy. Being civil is _far _more amusing. You should have seen his face. Absolutely _priceless…_I should have taken a picture of it." Then he tried to mimic the potioneer's expression, lasting an admirable two seconds before collapsing into a fit of childish giggling.

Harry started laughing with him.

Remus sighed. "I wait with bated breath for the day you make sense, Padfoot."

The laughter was still on his lips, but there was a kind of chill that permeated Sirius's reply:

"So do I."

* * *

><p><em><strong>I know this might seem out-of-character for both Sirius and Snape; I think, a few weeks ago, I might have agreed. But I beg patience as I dig a bit deeper into this situation. Trust me when I say they're not going to be the best of friends; rather, Sirius's incessant mockery will simply take a different spin. One harder to condemn. This is, in short, the beginning of an evolution of character that didn't happen in the books because of Azkaban. Sirius is learning that there are more refined ways to amuse himself than weird nicknames. I think it fits rather nicely; though I do admit that it was unexpected.<strong>_

_** But then, I think there's something more at work here than just time travel and hindsight. So wait a while, Gentle Reader, and I promise it will make sense.**_

_** Once again, I apologize for the delay. Next week's chapter will be up at its usual time.**_

_** See you then.**_


	14. A Madness to My Method

_**The question has been brought up on whether or not Sirius would refer to God or not, as I've had him do before in this little tale of mine. I postulate thus: magic has been in existence since the dawn of time. The novels make reference to Egypt, and the wizards responsible for their curses, any number of thousands of years in the past.**_

_** As an enthusiastic amateur in the realm of Egyptology, I hope that I am in a position to say that the Egyptians would have attributed their skill in magic to their gods; religion has evolved with humankind, as have its methods. I think it is rather safe to say that, like the Egyptians, witches and wizards in Greece, Rome, and other prominent civilizations would have thought of magic as a blessing from the gods.**_

_** This is all to say that I don't think it's an either/or thing here. I think there are plenty of witches and wizards who follow a religion; it's human nature to attribute the governing of the world and the universe to a deity, or deities.**_

_** Whether **_**Sirius**_** believes in religion is another question entirely.**_

_** And one I'm not quite prepared to answer just yet.**_

_** In any case, this chapter marks the beginning of a new phase in "Butterflies and Hurricanes." If the opening chapters with Sirius at Grimmauld Place comprised Part One, and his first days as a parent Part Two, then this chapter begins Part Three.**_

_** Let's see what happens, shall we?**_

* * *

><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>The days became weeks, and the weeks became months. The months became years. The wizarding world entered a new age of prosperity, and the times of the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters slowly, so slowly, faded into a state of dreams and history.<p>

Peter Pettigrew regained consciousness, but his mind was addled and he could hardly string together a full sentence. He had never fully recovered from whatever hell into which he'd been transported by the Cruciatus Curse, and became a permanent fixture of Hogwarts as little more than a companion to the house elves.

For a long time, it seemed like Frank and Alice Longbottom would follow in Peter's shuffling, aimless footsteps; unfit to care for their son, Neville was sent to live with his grandmother for a number of years. But progress was made, slow and sure, and the once-illustrious Aurors eventually rose out of the shadow of their shared horror, and were able to resume their lives, though they both transferred to more...suitable Ministry posts. After a time, they were even able to resume their duties as parents, though they often employed the assistance of strong, stern Augusta.

One by one, the Weasley children began their careers as students at Hogwarts.

Sirius Black, accompanied by his constant companion Remus Lupin, grew accustomed to his role as a parent; Remus Lupin, accompanied by his constant test of patience Sirius Black, grew accustomed to his role as a referee.

They became drifters, never staying in one place for long, always keeping watch for any conceivable threat to their young charge; young Harry Potter, too consumed with the Sisyphean tasks of learning to read and write, paid so little attention to what his guardians were doing on a given day that he probably thought their paranoid wanderings were simply a part of life. Likely enough, if he'd been confronted with the idea of living in one place for years at a time, Harry would have been mystified.

One particularly warm summer day, Remus sat in the Longbottoms' kitchen with a glass of ice water at his right hand and a newspaper in his left. He was freshly washed, his shoulder-length hair shaggy and dripping, having just come in from a morning of yard-work. He could hear Sirius, who had taken over, cursing through the window—not _real _curses, of course; Augusta would not have tolerated it. Transparently secular shouts of _"Your mother is a classy lady!" _that were clearly directed at no one sounded once every two minutes or so. Remus covered his mouth with his free hand, snickering.

"Whatcha laughin', Unca Remus?"

Remus glanced over the edge of his paper to see Harry, his glasses sitting askew on the edge of his little nose as he stared up at him. He was dressed in a simple grey robe, and he was holding a spelling book in both hands.

_"Oh, I hope you have a lovely evening!" _Sirius shouted after a particularly teeth-rattling crash.

"Why's Dad yelling?"

"Uncle Sirius," Remus corrected automatically. "You know how he feels about you calling him 'Dad.'" Although, he couldn't help smiling a little. "Don't worry about it. He's having some…ah…difficulties."

"Diffa-huh?"

"Trouble."

"Oh."

_"In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth!"_

_"That's_ a new one," Remus murmured, setting down his paper. "Go back to your work, Harry. I'll go see if Uncle Sirius needs some help." Harry grinned and nodded, then ran back through the doorway into the front room. "Unca Remus says he's having diffa-whatsies," he reported solemnly.

Remus wasn't sure what to expect as he stepped out into the yard; such that he was both confused and perfectly at ease, at the same precise moment, when he found the man flat on his back, covered in gardening tools.

"Found a…_fascinating _little gnome," Sirius spat, staring up at the sky.

"I see," Remus said. "A religious gnome?"

"Obviously." Sirius took the arm that was offered him, and pulled himself up. "Gets the slip on me again, I think I'll take a more…feral approach. My name's not Padfoot for nothing."

"Go and help Harry with his spelling," Remus said, hitching up his sleeves. "I'll find it."

"Oh, but Remus, you just got all dolled up and pretty. What will your date say if you show up covered in dust and weeds?"

Remus, tracing a thumb along a prominent scar that ran down his left cheek, raised a sardonic eyebrow. "I'm going to see Professor Dumbledore about some honest work for a change. I think he'll forgive my rudeness."

Sirius brushed off his pants. "Have it your way."

"Besides, I'll probably be helping Hagrid. This is valuable experience."

Sirius patted his friend's shoulder as he passed. "Keep telling yourself that. But until you break something…or a few somethings…it won't count for much. I don't think I want to know the sort of hellspawn _Hagrid _would need help with."

Remus waved dismissively, though he went slightly pale.

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>Frank stepped into the room gingerly; he still harbored a limp.<p>

Some days, he would simply stare off into space for hours at a time, lost in some private nightmare. He seemed himself today, though, and Sirius was glad for it. He sat down on the couch, and Neville promptly climbed up onto his lap. Sirius, his legs sprawled out in front of him as he sat on the floor, picked up the book Harry had just abandoned and looked at it. "Not sure moving pictures are the best way to keep a kid focused on homework," he muttered idly. "Don't know why we can't ever be satisfied with _words."_

"We're just like Muggles that way," Frank said, almost dreamily. Sirius glanced up at him; Neville was perched on his father's knee, which was bouncing in tune with some rhythm which only Frank could hear. "What did they do when they discovered electricity? Started using it for everything. Whoever worked out how to spark life into pictures must have thought the same way."

Sirius frowned. "Still. This is no better than 'educational television.'"

"Perhaps it's there to ensure _we_ pay attention," Frank offered, ignoring the reference, "instead of just setting them down in front of the book and expecting it to teach for us."

Frank and Alice had considered it the height of their accomplishments when they'd graduated to Father and Mother to Neville; there was something about the way Frank said "we," and "us," that sent a shock of warmth through Sirius's body. It was like he was part of some secret organization, charged with pivotally important work; in a way, he was. It was that idea that kept Sirius dedicated to the project of being a godfather past any other endeavor he'd ever pursued.

It was also what kept him awake some nights, wondering if he wasn't doing it entirely wrong.

Sighing, Sirius pulled himself and walked over to the corner of the room, where he retrieved a bag. Returning to his previous spot with it, he sat back down and began rummaging through it. Harry stopped staring at the carpet as his godfather began pulling out different books, books whose covers did _not_ move. Sirius would give each one a cursory glance before setting it aside, surprisingly carefully considering his usual attitude toward inanimate objects. "They can't feel it, right?" he was wont to say, invariably after he'd just thrown something at a wall.

Frank glanced down at the volumes his companion was sifting through. "Tolkien…Lovecraft…Stoker, Doyle…what _are _those, Sirius?"

"Muggle authors," Sirius muttered offhandedly, scowling.

"Bit of light reading, is it?" Frank asked.

"There's a prejudice around our kind," Sirius said, "and it dictates anything made by Muggles is automatically inferior. As though magic makes us more intelligent, more creative, more worthwhile. More…worth living." He scowled over his shoulder at the retired auror. "Know who that sounds like to me? My parents. My cousins. All the lofty, high-seeking aristocrats with barely enough collective sense to work a doorbell."

"So this is a protest?"

"Ask me, Muggles are the creative ones. Here we've gone and hidden ourselves away from them, and do they miss a step? Imagine what our lives would be like, if tomorrow magic didn't work. None of it. Poof. Gone. We'd go right damn mental, is what we'd do. There are thousands, millions, _billions _of people in the world who do that every day, not even batting an eyelash. And somehow that makes _us _the superior species."

Frank looked intrigued, and more than a little impressed.

Sirius finally found what he was looking for. "Aha!" It was an oversized but thin volume, with a conspicuously stationary picture of a boy and girl with letters and numbers floating about their heads, titled "Numbers and Letters: Our First Friends."

He took the book Harry was holding and replaced it with his own. "Take a look at that, Harry. Might be more your speed."

"Mug-book!" Harry cried, ecstatic. He turned to Frank and Neville. "Look! Unca Sirius gave me mug-book!"

"Indeed, he did," Frank said, smiling. "And what is the mug-book called, Harry?"

The excitable boy set about parsing out the title of his new prize, looking studious.

"It's what he calls any book that doesn't move," Sirius said, when Frank looked at him next. "He's…interested in Muggles. I'm trying to encourage it."

"Did you ever take Muggle Studies in school?"

Sirius scoffed. "Walked out the first day. What that old bat called 'a wizarding perspective on Muggle society' turned out a thinly-veiled list of reasons Muggles are idiots. Much more interested in what Muggles think of _us, _truth be told." He picked up a thick volume, the one marked as being written by Tolkien. "Like I said: creative. You'd be surprised how close they get, considering they don't believe in us."

Frank cocked his head curiously. "Interesting." He seemed to be filing something away in his mind for later consideration. Sirius cracked open his book and began to read. Harry shuffled up close to his godfather and mimicked his posture and expression.

The rest of the world ceased to exist for them.

* * *

><p><strong>Three.<strong>

* * *

><p>Kafell is watching, and he looks engaged. Studious.<p>

"You see, _mon père?" _he asks slowly. "You see that my plan has merit, don't you?" He stands, downs a bottle of smoking alcohol in one pull, and begins to pace about the dust-strewn study. "No, no, don't answer yet. Do not put words to your doubts yet."

The mirage shimmers, quakes and shivers. The boy and his guardians leave the safety and companionship of friends and embark on another journey. They have no destination, nor have they ever. They are content with this. Kafell is content with this. The question of motive, of merit, remains in the air.

"Consider," Kafell says, eyes gleaming with excitement, "the elements at work here. The extra pieces are already in play. He's already doing the leg-work for us. More than that, he's _happy _to do it. All we have to do, you and I, is…keep things under the radar, so to speak. Let things unfold as they will, without…ah…interruption."

How does he intend to do such a thing? How does he hope to escape notice?

"Allow that to be my concern. Do you think I've learned nothing? I have made it my life's work," here he clears his throat, as though sharing some private joke, "to be inconspicuous. Or haven't you noticed? Now, listen closely, my dearest patriarch: if we are to put this game of mine into motion, we must ensure the security of our investment."

Kafell often speaks in what humankind would call riddles. To the Mind, he is most unbearably frank. He has no sense of tact, and to many he has a vision that is far too narrow. But Kafell listens to no one's orchestrations but his own; within his person is a symphony of self-importance, and it is this that drives him on a path that none of his kind have ever gone before.

It is this that makes him arrogant.

And what makes him brilliant.

"Now then…what say we introduce ourselves to Master Black?"

* * *

><p><strong> <em>mon père = "my father" in French.<em>**

_**The various books in Sirius's possession are not some random collection of authors; they are authors that I, personally, have read or am reading. I am slowly but surely gathering together a "classics library," as it were, and no such library would be complete without the folks that Sirius reads.**_

**_He was said to be exceedingly clever in his days at school; I take that to mean that when he finds a subject that interests him, he is most studious. Such that he doesn't trust established teaching methods, finding them inadequate. One of those subjects seems to be Muggles._**

**_Lastly, the rather...odd exclamation during Sirius's escapades as a yard-boy is the first sentence of the book of Genesis in the King James Bible. Just for the sake of completeness, you understand._**


	15. Ghosts Atop the Spiral Tower

_**Good morning, all! It's been a long time, I know, and I apologize for that. Trying to keep this project going on a weekly basis, atop all the schoolwork I had to finish as the semester wound out its end, was beginning to wear on me. I was growing to dread this project. Instead of forcing out something that had no feeling, I decided it would be best to prioritize.**_

_** Thanks to this decision, I was able to ace my three classes this semester. A 4.0 has brought my GPA for the year up to a 3.53. Now the semester's over, and I'm enjoying a slight lull in things before things get hectic as I prepare to move into my new apartment in a couple weeks.**_

_** I will admit that I took a bit of a shortcut with this chapter, and it may not appeal to some of you. I would like to stress that each scene of this chapter came to me quite strongly, and I didn't want to go against my instincts. They may not always steer me the right way, but so far they've got a pretty good track record.**_

_** Oh. And one more thing. I'm on Facebook! I know, I know. Took me long enough, didn't it? I'm up there as "Iced Blood," because I can't escape that pen-name anymore, so I may as well embrace it fully. Look for the guy from Lodi, CA with the picture of Hitsugaya on it. That's me. I'll be posting updates and other such things on there from now on, instead of using the ill-fated blog that died after a month. It's simpler that way.**_

_** Now, with that said, let's begin, shall we?**_

* * *

><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>"Just admit it. You went searching for this place, didn't you?"<p>

"I admit nothing." Or so Sirius said, but there was a glint in his eye, and the grin on his face was almost manic; he was clearly pleased. Remus supposed he didn't have anything _against _trespassing on a national park to hide out in a castle—it wasn't as though he had a reputation to uphold—but he wasn't sure that he shared his friend's _glee_ at the prospect. Perhaps he just wasn't romantic enough for it.

Harry seemed more than a little frightened of the place, but his godfather's exuberance did a fair bit in curbing that. He was currently perched on Remus's shoulders, looking round at the dark, haunted stones.

"Do you even know what this place is called?" Remus asked. "Is there a _name _to our most recent felony?"

Sirius shrugged and waved away the question as though it were entirely unimportant. "Thornfield? Rosewood? Some such thing. I doubt the walls care what you call them. And there haven't been any residents here for about six decades."

"Really?" Remus raised a sardonic eyebrow. "There are surprisingly few cobwebs for that, don't you think? I don't even see any dust. Surely sixty years would have found a number of eight-legged tenants?"

"Wha'sa tenant?" Harry asked.

"We are," Sirius said.

"I got _two _legs." He waggled them around as if to illustrate the point. Remus took hold of the boy's ankles and held him in place. "Two," Harry repeated, quietly, musingly, then took to studying his hands. "Two legs. Two hands. Not _eight."_

"Never mind." Sirius went back to scouring the hallway. He peered into a room, grinned. "This should work." He gestured. "Plenty of room to settle in, far enough into the hall that we won't be noticed. Perfect."

The room was wide, low-roofed, and Remus felt claustrophobic as he entered into it. A shattered table and splintered set of chairs sat against one wall, rotted and pathetic. Aside from that, there was nothing marking any particular use for the room; nor, Remus noted with growing apprehension, dust or cobwebs. He hadn't heard skittering, squeaking, crying, nothing. No pests had entered here, no dirt. Yet clearly decay had vented its anger on this place. The walls and floors, the towers and ceilings and balconies, were strong and stout; but furniture, tapestry, and artistry of all kinds had been decimated.

Time passed in silence for a while.

"I'm going to look around," Sirius said, setting his pack down in one corner. "See if I can't find anything useful." The look on Remus's face said that he knew his friend just wanted to explore, but figured there wasn't much use in arguing. The last Black gestured. "I'll take the growth for a while, if you like."

Remus raised an eyebrow with some amount of surprise, but nodded and set Harry down onto the stone floor. "What do you say, Harry?" he asked, gently. "Would you like to help me make this place presentable, or go exploring with Uncle Sirius?"

Harry thought on this, long and hard. Eventually, his distaste for chores won out over fear of the unknown, and he shuffled over to Sirius and took hold of his hand. "What we going for?" he asked. "Lookin' for stuff?"

"Stuff, ghosts, dragons," Sirius said, and Harry suddenly looked unsure of his decision. He glanced at Remus. "I'm not picky. Come on, then. Let's get started. Not every day you get to explore a castle."

"He'll get to explore a castle every day of his education," Remus noted.

"That's different." Sirius sneered.

"Edu…ca…"

"Never mind." Sirius all but pulled Harry along, and for a moment the toddler looked like he was skipping. "Let's go see what we can see."

"No…scary stuff. Right?"

"Don't worry. Besides, you want a good story to tell Neville next time you see him, right? Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"Ven…tu…?"

They were off.

Remus sighed, chuckled, and crouched down to sift through their supplies. He might have used his wand, but had grown used to ignoring it. It was difficult to justify the flash and flare of it, in light of everything else. Not to mention, he happened to agree with Sirius on one point of Harry's formative education, if none other:

"I'd rather he grow up like a Muggle, and really appreciate what magic can do for him, than end up tripping over himself the first time a spell doesn't work for him. He'll get enough magic to choke himself with it at school, taught by people far more qualified than I am. I'm going to teach him something I understand better than they do: manual labor."

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>Harry Potter was a brave boy. He walked along, taking in his surroundings quietly. He was frowning, and jumped at every little noise, but he didn't balk; he didn't run, and he didn't beg Sirius to go back. Every once in a while, he would give a slightly reproachful look to his godfather, which Sirius seemed to find amusing.<p>

"Long while ago, people used to live in places like this," Sirius said. "Lords and ladies and kings and queens. And all their servants and knights. Remember King Arthur? He probably lived in a castle like this one. Only cleaner."

"How come we don't live in castles now?"

"We got boring."

"Are _we _gonna live in castle?"

"For a while," Sirius said. "And then, when you're older, and you go to school, you'll get to see a _real _castle. That's where you'll learn magic. You'll learn how to make things float in the air, and go invisible, change them into animals. You'll get to learn how to fly."

"Fly? In sky?"

"Mm-hm. Not like your little toy broom. All the way up, past the trees."

"All way up _there? _C'I learn how do that now?"

"Not yet."

Harry seemed entirely too enamored of the idea of flight to be fully healthy. He hardly went anywhere without his little broomstick, and any time he saw a bird he would stop, mesmerized, until it was too far away to see anymore. Sirius wondered if he would play Quidditch, like his father.

Sirius hoped so, and intended to encourage it, for James's sake.

They entered a staircase tower that spiraled upward for what felt like an infinitude of steps; Sirius eventually picked up his godson and settled him on his shoulders as Remus had done. He began to hum a tuneless little melody to himself; he'd tried to count the steps, but Sirius Black was not a man known for his infinite patience.

By the time he reached the tiny, rounded room atop the final stair, both Sirius and Harry were tired, sweating, and irritated.

Someone was sitting there, waiting for them.

* * *

><p><strong>Three.<strong>

* * *

><p>The figure was up against the wall, one knee bent and the other leg splayed out in front. Hands reached up out of frayed, dirty robes and removed the hood from the figure's face; that face was pale, pointed, and would have been noble if it weren't somehow…ethereal. His shoulder-length brown hair was slicked back on his head, and a white streak ran through it.<p>

"Long days and pleasant nights, Master Black. Master Potter." The pale figure, who was wearing frayed robes and ancient-styled boots, chuckled at some joke that Sirius didn't understand. "I am called Kafell. Won't you sit?"

"Seems we weren't the only people with the bright idea to take up camp here," Sirius muttered sardonically, picking up his godson and setting him onto the floor. He removed his wand from a pocket and held it at his side. "Kafell, was it?"

"It was," Kafell said, rising slowly to his feet, "and do not get the wrong idea. I am here specifically so that I might speak with you." The man cleared his throat. "You will realize, at some point after this discussion is finished, that I look familiar to you."

"…If you say so."

Though there was a jovial quality to his tone of voice, Kafell's voice—and most particularly, his eyes—bespoke something that was creeping slowly (so slowly) toward dread. "I can do very little here," the man who was almost a ghost told Sirius. "Until these two existences intermingle, and the world picks itself up, I am…split."

Sirius quirked an eyebrow. "What?"

"What would you say to me," said Kafell, "if I were to tell you that everything that you have experienced in the past smattering of years, from your travels to your freedom, was little more than an illusion?"

"I'd say cram it. Magic might be able to bend our perception of reality, but not that far. I'd have seen it by now, if you were working some spell on me. Stay behind me, Harry. I don't trust this clown."

The boy had been inching up to stand at his godfather's side, looking strangely interested. Sirius pushed him back a step.

"There are things to which you must…attend," Kafell said, as though Sirius hadn't spoken at all. "Perhaps it would be best if you see what I mean. Understand what has been done, and what is at stake." The smirk came back. "I will leave you, then. I had hoped that you would recognize me, as it would have simplified things, and rid us of…certain risks. But it seems the paradox must be visited. I shall let…someone else speak to you."

"What the holy _hell—"_

With a flourish, Kafell's robes swirled up around him, and when they settled a moment later, with dust settling about his shoulders like the mantle of a king…

Sirius Black was staring at himself.

* * *

><p><strong>Four.<strong>

* * *

><p>"You realize, I hope, that you're dreaming. Right?"<p>

Sirius stared openly at the vision of himself, and blinked dumbly. "I hope so," he murmured. "Otherwise, I think I'll have to take up a room in St. Mungo's."

The apparition smirked.

"Unca Sirius!" Harry whispered urgently. "He look like Unca Sirius!"

The old ghost looked down at the toddler, and a heartbroken smile rose on his cracked lips. Haunted grey eyes rose to meet Sirius's own. "I'm you. About twelve years from now, give or take."

"I have no business questioning whether that's possible," Sirius replied, "because I was never much for magic theory, and anyway, apparently I'm not conscious right now. I'm not sure I believe you, but we'll go with it for now. What do you want with me?"

"I wish I knew. He just threw me here. I guess he figured I'd take the opportunity to tell you whatever the _fu_—oh." His eyes were on Harry again. The boy was listening raptly, staring up at him. The man cleared his throat. "Anyway."

"You'll forgive me if I don't understand what's happening right now. And you'll forgive me if I wake up tomorrow morning thinking this is any other dream, and ignoring anything I hear from you."

"Probably for the best," the older Sirius said, waving a dismissive hand. "Kafell, or whatever his real name is, has a nasty habit of doing things without preamble, and expecting his pawns to figure things out for themselves. I have a question to ask you. Clearly you've managed to stay clear of prison, so you're already better off than I was. So what happened? With James, and Lily? With Peter?"

Sirius's eyes narrowed. "I'd rather not talk about this around Harry."

"Grow up. He's not really here. We don't have enough time. _What happened?"_

Sirius growled low in his throat, but the other's face was stone-set. "…I woke up one night, in Godric's Hollow. I found them. I found Harry. Hagrid took me to see Dumbledore, and I convinced him to let me take Harry under my wing. We didn't find Peter until later. Their location was tortured out of him." Sirius couldn't rid himself of the suspicion that this wasn't the whole truth.

The elder took note of this, and the dark smirk returned. "Is _that_ what he told you…?"

"Didn't tell me anything. Showed up at Hogwarts half-dead and babbling."

The grey eyes with the sparks of madness widened. "Is thatwhat…? Well, no matter. Listen to me: pay close attention to him. Trust _no one_ when the subject is Peter, or Voldemort, or any of the scum-sucking bastards. Trust your gut, you hear me? You don't think the torture story is true, do you? I can see it in you. It probably isn't."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't think Kafell changed the past. I think he just threw you into Godric's Hollow and watched things go from there. Good on you, looking after Harry. I didn't do that. I forgot what I was supposed to be, and got myself locked away for it. Whatever. Just know this: Voldemort isn't dead. He's searching for a body. A way to pull himself back up from the brink. He'll go after Harry. It'll be a long while yet, probably, before he has the power to do anything. But he'll show up eventually. That much I'm sure of."

"Volly-mort!" Harry called out. "Volly-mort!"

"Hush."

"Do everything you can bloody well think of to prepare for it. If you think you're being paranoid, step up your game because it's not enough. Run yourself ragged if you have to. Dumbledore will want to keep Harry protected, and preserve his innocence or some such drivel. Don't. It didn't work for my Harry, and it won't work for yours. Keep him informed, keep him prepared, and _keep him alive. _You get me?"

Sirius frowned, but nodded.

"Good. You're probably going to wake up now."

The elder Sirius stepped forward, knelt down, and put a hand on Harry's head, tousling the messy black hair. The smile on his face held no happiness, only grief. He stood up, and looked directly into the eyes of his younger self. He tapped Sirius's forehead. "I'm in there, somewhere. Those sparks of intuition you've been having? Me. Keep digging, Padfoot. If you manage to unravel whatever memories of mine are trapped in that skull of yours, you might just make it out alive."

Sirius blinked, and his vision was suddenly blurry.

_**Take care of him.**_

The world went black.

* * *

><p><strong>Five.<strong>

* * *

><p>When Sirius opened his eyes again, he was looking up at Remus; worried, as usual.<p>

"I need a drink," the last Black muttered as he rose to a sitting position.

"What possessed you to come all the way up here?" Remus asked, and Sirius realized that he was sitting at the top of the spiral tower. "One moment, I'm laying out bedrolls with Harry, the next you're just…gone. No word, no sharp remark. Nothing."

Sirius looked around, stood up and dusted off his pants. "Sleep-walking," he muttered.

"Uh-huh."

They began the trek down the tower's winding stairs, Sirius brooding while Remus shot worried, suspicious glances at him every so often. They didn't speak until they reached the room where their supplies had been laid out. Sirius immediately dropped down onto his bedroll and leaned back against the cold stone wall, looking wistfully up at the ceiling.

He closed his eyes.

"…This is getting complicated."

* * *

><p><em><strong>I know that the dream sequence might be convoluted, and I apologize if it didn't come out quite like I pictured it would. But I felt like this was the way that Kafell would reach Sirius, and it felt like a natural progression for the story. Perhaps it just muddied up the waters. I'm not sure.<strong>_

_** But all in all, I think this worked out pretty well.**_

_** I hope you enjoyed this installment.**_

_** I'll be updating weekly again, but it will probably be on Wednesdays from now on.**_

_** For now, it's the best option for me.**_

_** So, see you next time.**_


	16. Mucking Up the Waters

_**I'm working out a day that might be best to update this story. The middle of the week doesn't seem to work too well. Distractions abound. Gone are the years of my life when summer-time meant I have nothing to do. Nowadays, it just means I have the time to catch up on the various activities that were neglected during the semester.**_

_**I'm working out various kinks with how to approach this story. I think the month off was important for a number of reasons, but it's also put me slightly off my game. Nonetheless, I'm regaining my feel for it.**_

_**Something I wanted to mention, in regard to certain reviews I've gotten espousing dislike/hatred for a given character. Molly Weasley and Dumbledore are two of the most mystifying targets of criticism for me, if only because I've always found them fascinating.**_

_**I should be clear: I don't claim that they're perfect people. None of them are. Everybody has faults, and that's what makes them good characters to me. Molly is sweet, good-natured, protective; she is also opinionated, controlling, and prone to overreaction. This is what makes her human. If she were purely good, that would be boring (not to mention fake).**_

_**And as to Dumbledore…well. Powerful people tend to be manipulative, not to mention arrogant. Did he make mistakes? Of course he did. Were they huge? Absolutely. Does that make him a bad person? Does that make him evil? No.**_

_**It makes him human.**_

_**Anyway, I'll get off my soapbox. Let's get to it, shall we?**_

* * *

><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>"You've been spending a lot of your time here," said Professor McGonagall, eyeing Sirius suspiciously as they crossed each other in the hallway. She didn't sound particularly disapproving, at least not <em>really, <em>but she did sound as though she expected an answer this time, and wouldn't brook with the last Black's usual deflective impertinence.

"It's safe," Sirius replied. "As safe as anywhere can be right now. And Harry seems to have taken a liking to castles."

"For a man who made such a bother out of taking care of Harry, you seem to spend a disproportionate amount of time away from him." Sirius had always viewed his old head of house as a stern orphanage matron, the kind who could scare grown men into quailing with nothing more than a stiff eyebrow and a clearing of the throat.

Sirius grinned at her. "I'm easing my way into this, Professor. Contrary to what you might think, I am fully aware of my own faults." Was this true? He wasn't sure. Some _part _of him _felt _aware of certain…abrasive parts of his personality. But it didn't feel entirely genuine. As usual.

"Mm."

"In any case, Hagrid is looking after him at the moment. I have a…ahem, meeting."

"With the Headmaster?"

"Maybe. If instinct proves me wrong and my first choice fails as miserably as I secretly hope he will." Sirius blinked, and quirked his head. "Huh. Not much of a secret if I go around admitting it to people." He shrugged. "Anyway, I want Harry to spend time with people other than me, or Remus. He spends so much time around the two of us, running around for no good reason and acting like spies, and Heaven only knows what he'll pick up from us. I figure it would be good for him to have exposure to…you know, responsible sorts."

"So you left him with Hagrid."

Sirius frowned. "…Huh. Should've thought this idea through a bit better." Then he shrugged. "He's resourceful. He'll manage."

He turned away, the grin on his face just barely revealing that he was having entirely too much fun ignoring Minerva's stunned, almost disgusted expression.

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>Severus Snape's expression was stunned and <em>thoroughly <em>disgusted as his (former?) nemesis sauntered into the classroom.

"Bit dingy down here," the exile said, running a hand through his long black hair and waving animatedly at the students as they filed past him, intent on having lunch. "Did I catch you at a bad time, Sev?"

Severus's jaw flexed as he resisted the urge to grind his teeth. "…I doubt that it would matter," he hissed, each word coming out deliberately, failing to hide his anger and, dare he admit it even to himself, discomfort.

The aspiring potions master was not so delusional as to say that the men he'd since grown to hate—all four of them—weren't…talented, in their own way. Potter had been nothing if not charismatic, able to win any detractor into his good graces if given enough time; hadn't Lily Evans been the ultimate proof of that? Lupin was brilliant, in his homespun way, and was dedicated tooth and nail to defying all expectations of his breed. So far, just by not turning or even attacking anyone when he turned, he'd done just that.

Pettigrew was, perhaps, the perfect example of why judging a book by its cover was a stupid, and fatal, show of arrogance…if the rumors Severus had heard were true, anyway.

And Black? He epitomized the word "gifted." He took to magic the way a hawk takes to the hunt. He hadn't studied a day in his life, had cheated and cajoled his way through every written exam, and yet never once had he stumbled in a practical test. He knew, instinctively, how magic worked. He could feel it, sense it, manipulate and seduce it.

A dark and seething hatred seeped through Severus's eyes as he watched Black slowly and meanderingly approached his desk. "Have an office hour to spare? Got a favor to ask you."

"Wait a moment while I dance away my joy," Severus muttered.

Black smirked and leaned against the edge of one of the students' tables as though he intended to do just that. His hands were, as always, in his pockets. Black was completely at ease, supremely confident, and Severus willed his own anger away. He refused to let this disgraced aristocrat make a fool of him.

"You were always…keyed in when it came to mental magic. Reading emotions and sifting through thoughts. How versed are you on dreams?"

Severus blinked. "…What?"

Black sighed. "Say you're looking for a place to stay. Can't be seen in one place for too long. So you're on the lookout for anywhere and everywhere that's halfway comfortable, defendable. Somewhere you can make a stand, if…something goes off."

Severus did not respond, but he leaned unconsciously forward.

"You set your sights on a castle. There's something romantic about that idea, so you jump on it. And what do you do in an place like that, except explore it for a while? Not only is it tactical, to scope out the perimeter so you know what you're dealing with—escape routes and all that. But it's _fun. _It's an old, abandoned fortress. That's just…appealing."

Severus frowned.

Black continued: "At some point during your explorations, you're…caught by something. You don't realize that you're dreaming, but all the same you have to be. At some point, you've just…fallen unconscious. You meet someone, in this dream. Someone who tells you things that are…well, too crazy to be made up. You know, somehow, that nothing you could ever conjure up would have added up to this. Is it really a dream? Or at that point, is it a hallucination?"

"You'll have to be more specific, Black."

He sighed again, lifted himself up onto his feet, and began to pace about in front of Severus's desk, looking as though he wanted nothing more in the world than to continue speaking. Now he looked unnerved; now he looked uncomfortable. Severus didn't bother to hide the sinister grin rising on his thin lips.

Black shook his head. "I found a tower where I was staying with Harry and Remus. I climbed it. There was a man there, saying he wanted to talk to me. He said everything I've been doing, everything I've experienced in the past few years, has been an illusion. Or…something like that. Then he…he…turned into me."

"What?" Severus leaned forward again, his brow furrowing.

"Except he was…older. He had grey in his hair. Looked like he hadn't shaved in a month. Telling me, 'You know you're dreaming, right?' He…asked me what happened, when I found Harry. What happened with Lily…and…and James. Then he said not to trust anyone about Peter, and that…Voldemort isn't dead. That he's looking for a body, and that he'll come after Harry for revenge as soon as he finds one."

Severus stood up. "When did this happen?" he asked, unable to hide the sudden interest in his voice or his face.

"A week ago. After he said all this, I woke up in that tower, and there weren't any traces of anybody but me, and Harry, and Remus in that castle." Black looked almost pleadingly at Severus. "Was this just…a dream? Or was somebody…?"

"…What do you know of legilimency, Black?"

"Enough to have thought of it."

"Occlumency."

"I know what it _is."_

"Then it is, perhaps, possible that this dream of yours was a vision." The scientist nestled deep within Severus's ambitions came out, and he rounded the desk to approach his enemy. For once, Black did not respond physically or verbally. "The question, of course, becomes…who would create such a vision? Who would send you such information? I have my doubts that this was anything more than a simple dream. Though your ability to remember it so long, and so vividly, speaks to the contrary." Severus did not bother to hide the snide edge to his tone. "What, exactly, did this vision of yourself say to you? Verbatim."

After a beat of silence, Black replayed an entire conversation, word for word, without a hitch of hesitation. The more he spoke, the more nervous he became, and Severus thought for a moment that he might attack.

He reached out. Not with his hand, or his wand. No. Severus Snape was not so crass as that. He knew, as easily as he knew how to breathe, that the last Black would make a pathetic occlumens. He was a Gryffindor, trained by decades of example to celebrate his emotions. He tried to hide his feelings, this one, and was markedly more successful at it than Potter had ever been, but he was in no way guarded.

Severus did not need incantations, nor a catalyst, to sift into another person's mind.

He fell into the ease of that old routine, expecting at least to find something halfway interesting, something he might be able to use, even if he did not find an answer to this strangely perplexing question.

He found…nothing.

It was like leaning against a wall, only to realize too late that the wall wasn't there.

Severus stumbled, nearly fell, and stared—almost horror-struck—at Sirius Black.

"…Your mind…" he whispered, "…is closed."

Black responded to this with an odd expression. "What?"

"When did you learn to block it?" Severus asked. "No. No, you can't have. Not even the…no, no, this isn't occlumency. This is outside interference, beyond even…quickly! This must be reported! Now!"

* * *

><p><strong>Three.<strong>

* * *

><p>Dumbledore listened intently as Snape and Sirius both explained the situation. As was his way, the old wizard asked questions that neither expected. Nonetheless, by the time the two younger wizards reached the end of their narrative, Dumbledore had not reached a conclusion of any form. He said, "Regardless of whomever may or may not have delivered this message to Sirius…it is perhaps more important that we take the warning of it in mind. Severus, have you not claimed the belief that Voldemort is still alive, and is simply biding his time until the opportunity to revive himself becomes apparent?"<p>

Snape nodded.

"This…vision of yourself, Sirius. You say that it wanted to know about Peter?"

"He…Kafell or whoever, wanted to know what happened to him," Sirius said. "When I told him the Potters' hideout was tortured out of him, he didn't believe me. Said I didn't believe it, either, and that I shouldn't trust anyone about Peter anymore. Said I should trust my gut."

"And what does your gut tell you?"

"…You're going to make me say it, aren't you? I think Peter gave up the information willingly. That he was tortured to make the story convincing. I don't know if he was manipulated, interrogated, threatened, cajoled, possessed…but I don't think they had to torture it out of him."

Dumbledore considered this for a long moment, but didn't respond. He turned his attention to Snape. "Severus. In your studies and practice, have you ever come across a mental…wall, such as Sirius seems to have?"

"No," Snape replied confidently. "This magic, if it's magic at all, isn't human. It didn't just block me. It repelled me. See for yourself." He gestured dismissively.

"That's fine," Dumbledore said. "I trust your judgment. Sirius, I think it might be best for you and yours to stay here at Hogwart's for the time being. I'm sure that we can find a spare room for the three of you. I should like to study this further. In the meantime, we will assume that this warning about Voldemort's continued existence is genuine, and prepare ourselves accordingly."

The two men nodded, rose, and turned to leave.

"Sirius," Dumbledore called. "Can you think of _anything _else about recent events that might pertain to this situation? This…Kafell?"

A part of Sirius wanted to feel indignant. Wanted to ignore the question with a grin and a flippant comment and just walk away. But another part of him _did _remember something, and realized with some surprise that he didn't want to reveal it.

But again came that spark of intuition, something that said, _Don't. Lack of communication was the first nail in the coffin. Tell him. Even if it doesn't do any damn good, it's better than setting a precedent for lying. You're not a student anymore, idiot. Act like an adult._

Sirius turned.

_Act like a father._

He said, "…A while back, I found this book."

* * *

><p><em><strong>I've started a new project, called "The Cottage at the Edge of Forever." This Blogspot blog is dedicated to my original fiction, and is updated on weekdays. I have 10 stories up at this point, in varying degrees of length and completeness. If anyone would like to see how I handle my own worlds, and my own takes on fantasy, I'd greatly appreciated if you took a trip to the cottage. You can find it by clicking on the homepage on my profile, or by heading to ib-fantasy (dot) blogspot (dot) com.<strong>_

_**Also, you can find me on Facebook now. Look for the "Iced Blood" from Lodi, California. This has taken the place of my first blog, the now-dead "In Cold Blood," and I post any and every update pertaining to my work on there.**_

_**See you next week, folks. Have a good one.**_


	17. Pertinent Questions with Elusive Answers

_**I try my best to keep my information accurate. My main source of information for this story is, admittedly, the Harry Potter Wiki, but I have also been known to use information gleaned from the HP Lexicon, and now that Pottermore is available to the general public, I intend to integrate bits and pieces from that, as well, wherever it might be applicable.**_

_**I have heard from a number of sources that Quirrell taught Muggle Studies before moving on to Defense Against the Dark Arts, but I cannot seem to pinpoint the original source of this information; however, I'm going to assume that it is correct. I mention this in particular because I've done a fair amount of digging, and can't find where it originated.**_

_**Still…it's certainly interesting.**_

_**And may have some bearing on how this story continues. As the following chapter might showcase.**_

_**Enjoy. See you all next week.**_

* * *

><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>"So, young one, what do <em>you <em>know about Muggles?"

Sirius stood in front of the blackboard with a pointer in his hand like a fencing foil, staring at his godson as though he intended to force knowledge into him via telepathy. Harry was doing a rather effective impression of Professor Flitwick, seated on a number of books so that he could use a student's desk. He looked enthralled, and more than a little confused.

"Um…no magic?"

"Correct. Muggles cannot use magic."

Sirius had written "Facts about Muggles" on one end of the board, and "Lies about Muggles" on the other. He wrote "No magic" under the facts column. Slowly and deliberately, Harry attempted to imitate his godfather on a wide sheet of parchment, but ended up getting most of the ink onto his fingers and, somehow, his forehead.

"What about _you?" _Sirius directed at Remus, who was standing in one corner of the room. "What can you add to the board?"

"Generally speaking," said the young werewolf after a moment, "Muggles do not, or cannot, distinguish between true magic and superstition."

Sirius thought about this for a moment, then wrote, "Can't tell true magic from false," under the truth column. "All right, then. Anything else?"

"Live in house!" Harry shouted happily.

Sirius grinned, and wrote it under the truth column. "Very true, Harry. Many Muggles do, in fact, live in houses. Good."

Harry laughed and batted his desk with his ink-covered hands in celebration.

"They cannot see Dementors," Remus added.

Sirius raised an eyebrow and wrote it down.

"Wha'sa 'mentor?" Harry asked.

"A Dementor is what we call the creatures that guard Azkaban," Sirius said, and felt a superstitious shudder run down his spine; he recalled that his dream-self had mentioned something about staying out of prison. "That's where bad people go, so that we can keep everybody safe."

"Volly-mort?"

"…When we catch him, yes. That's where he'll go."

Harry wrote: "VOLYMORT GO BAD PEEPL PLASE" on his sheet; though it was barely recognizable as writing, Sirius grinned proudly and nodded.

"Excellent! Good work."

Remus's own smile reached his ears. He seemed equal parts amused by and proud of both Harry's attempts at studying and Sirius's attempts at schooling. He glanced cursorily at the doorway and saw Minerva McGonagall walking by. He caught her attention with a gesture, and beckoned her inside.

"Now!" Sirius said, using his pointer to gesture toward the column. He ignored his old head of house, focusing on his student. "So far, we have some things here, and they're true. These things are true about Muggles. They're real things we know."

"We know," Harry replied gravely.

"But what about lies?" Sirius gestured to the other column. "What sorts of lies do we tell about Muggles?"

"Lies _bad," _Harry said.

"Yes, they are," Sirius agreed. Under the lies column, Sirius wrote, "Muggles are dumb." Remus snickered, and Minerva raised a thin eyebrow. "Some people will try to tell you Muggles are dumb. Because they can't tell what magic is, and don't believe in it. This is a lie. Muggles are _not _dumb."

"Mugs not dumb."

"Mug-_gles."_

"Mug-_goos."_

"…Close enough. Actually, I'd like to go into using the word 'Muggle' in the first place, but I'll wait on that. Anyway! Some people will try to tell you…"

Sirius wrote down: "Muggles are weak."

"…Because bad people sometimes use magic to hurt Muggles. They think it's funny. But it's _not _funny. Understand, Harry? And these people, they think Muggles are weak because they can't fight back. This is a lie. Muggles are people, just like us. There are weak Muggles, there are strong Muggles. There are weak wizards, and strong wizards. Weak witches, and strong witches."

Harry mumbled under his breath as he tried laboriously to write something.

Sirius wrote down, "Muggles are inferior."

Harry made no reply to this. He looked up, then went right back to his parchment. Sirius said, "Some people will tell you, because they believe these other things, that Muggles are our servants. Or that they're animals. Or that they don't deserve the same things that we do. That's what 'inferior' means. But it's not true. Muggles are the same as we are. They just don't use magic. Just like I don't ride a broom, but you do. Does riding a broom make you better than me?"

"Yes," Harry said.

Sirius bit back a laugh, and said, "…No. It doesn't. And it doesn't make Muggles less human to not use magic. So, I don't want you listening to anybody who tries to tell you these things. Lies are bad. Remember? So don't listen to them."

"No listen."

"…Right. And while we're on the subject, don't listen to Arthur Weasley, either. He's enthusiastic, but I think he might have been hit on the head one too many times."

"Thusie-stick."

Minerva's lips curved in a smile as Remus started laughing. Sirius brandished his pointer as though he intended to challenge them both to a duel. "No laughing in my classroom. I'll have authority, or I'll have your hides."

"I see you've managed to find a way to occupy yourselves while you're here," Minerva observed, still smiling. "Bit of preliminary schooling, is it?"

Sirius set the pointer down. "I want him to know the truth. If he's going to be the heir to my house, I want to make sure he learns everything my illustrious bloodline believes in, and spits on it."

"You certainly seem to have strong opinions on the subject. Tell me, is there a specific reason for your emphasis on Muggles?"

"Point of principle. Who teaches Muggle Studies?" Sirius asked.

"Professor Quirrell," Minerva answered quietly.

"Take a guess, why don't you, about how much time he's spent around Muggles? How much time has he spent trying to understand and emulate them? How much of their culture has he studied? How much has he _experienced?"_

"I wouldn't venture a guess," Minerva said. "I'd say that you should ask him, if it matters as much to you as the volume of your voice would indicate."

"My point is," Sirius went on, ignoring the suggestion, "the class taught here is so fixated on teaching students about Muggles from 'a wizarding point of view' that they forget about the _Muggle _point of view. I won't have my godson growing up with this baseless prejudice in his head."

"It seems we've hit upon a sore spot. And you, of course, are qualified to teach him, then?"

"A fair sight more qualified than anyone here. I'd stake anything I own on it." The more Sirius spoke, the more animated he became. He held up his hands as though pushing Minerva back and said, "Example. I'll give you an example. First day I took Muggle Studies in school, I got a worksheet with an essay question on it. I still remember it. It was, 'Muggles continue to deny the existence of magic, despite all evidence to the contrary. Discuss the reason for this.' Now, in your expert opinion, how many of our people consider Muggles' denial of magic to be…ignorant, if not outright stupid?"

Minerva frowned. "A majority. I would not consider this to be a _failure_ on their part, but ignorance? Surely."

"Is it? Muggles have been taught by centuries upon centuries of conditioning, by themselves _and _by us, that magic isn't real. That it's mere whimsical fancy. And we're not talking about a smattering of people believing this, like the wizarding community ignoring the existence of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. We're talking about _billions. _For the love of all that's holy, what _else _would they possibly believe? We've been hiding our existence for hundreds of years now."

"Because Muggles cast us out of their communities out of fear."

"Human nature," Sirius muttered dismissively. "'In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is stoned to death.' We're frightened of anything more powerful than we are. Martial magic gives any witch or wizard a _huge_ tactical advantage over Muggles, and all it takes is one megalomaniac who decides he wants to take over a country to spoil everyone's reputation. Power corrupts. It was only a matter of time before Muggles decided we couldn't be trusted, and cast us out. We can do something they can't; something that can set them on fire and transform them into animals; something that can torture them, control their minds, kill them outright, and there's nothing they can damn well do about it. We're a dangerous minority for them. Eventually, after so many decades of us hiding our power from them because it was just easier that way, they started to think they'd dreamed up the whole thing, and we became a myth. That's not ignorance. That's a bloody coping mechanism."

Minerva studied Sirius's face for a long while. She seemed to have no answer to this. Remus, for his part, had a look of dawning comprehension on his face; though what he'd learned—either about Muggles or his best friend—was anybody's guess.

Harry was doodling on his parchment, with his fingers.

Finally, after the silence had gone on for just a bit too long, Minerva said, "…Have you ever considered teaching?"

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>"Do what you can with it," he said. "Read it through, and let me know what you think," he said. "It could contain vital information," he said.<p>

So far, Severus hadn't managed to work anything out of _A Mind's Last Defense _except meandering metaphysics and half-poetic daydreaming. It was filled with stupid questions purposefully designed to have no answers, and general musings that were of no use to anyone.

He half-considered pawning the book off on Trelawney, thinking she would be much more likely to find some meaning in this drivel than he was, except there was something inherently…horrific about going to _her _for help. It felt like a most insulting, debilitating defeat.

So he continued to read and reread, parsing together references and seemingly random word choices in particular passages. Eventually, Severus realized that half his problem was that he was trying to force meaning onto the book, leaping at any conceivable reference to anything. He had no core question, no fundamental base upon which to work.

He had, of course, heard the Muggle saying about finding a needle in a haystack. This was like that, except he didn't know _which _haystack had the needle. Or which needle he was actually looking for.

An absolute fool's errand.

Severus left the book on his desk and left the dungeons to take a walk, presumably to clear his head. It didn't take him long to run into someone he most pointedly did _not _want to see, and immediately set his teeth back on edge: Remus Lupin.

The scruffy-looking man with the frayed robes smiled and gave a jaunty little half-salute. "Good afternoon, Professor," he offered jovially, and the politeness of it made Severus bristle even more; it felt like a slap in the face.

For all that he was, though, Lupin was most definitely not stupid. He knew immediately that his attempt at cordiality was not accepted. He maintained a certain professional distance when he said, "Have you been able to make any headway on the book Sirius found?"

Severus loathed admitting defeat, but he was no coward. He shook his head. "Not at the moment."

"Well, best of luck. This entire situation has taken a definite turn for the strange."

"…Indeed."

"What about Peter? I believe you were trying to work out some…alchemical remedy for his current…ah, condition?"

"His condition is unchanged," Severus said mechanically.

"I see." Lupin's face fell. "A shame, that."

Silence dropped upon them like an unexpected houseguest.

"Is there…anything else?" Severus clenched his teeth.

"Um…yes." Lupin looked embarrassed. "I wondered if you could…help me. With a…certain potion."


	18. A Test of Patience

_**I apologize for the delay in getting this out. Since moving into my new apartment, I've had a difficult time writing anything substantial. I haven't managed to get into the right frame of mind for this story in weeks, and it pains me to know that I claimed to be back on the wagon with this one, only to prove that to be false.**_

_**I hope that I may be forgiven. This story is important to me, as it's a testament to various shifts and changes that I've made both as a writer and as a fan of the series in general, and I want to make sure that I do it justice.**_

_**Thank you for your patience. I'll see you next time.**_

* * *

><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>Sirius Black wasn't the sort of person who could abide fading into the background for very long. This went a long way toward explaining why he'd been so restless over the past few years, flitting away from place to place doing his best to be inconspicuous, and also why he was venting so much pent-up frustration within the walls of Hogwarts Castle.<p>

If any place in Britain was safe from Voldemort and his minions, it was this castle. And that meant if any place in Britain was in any way appropriate for Sirius's usual forms of entertainment, considering the circumstances, it was this castle.

The students, particularly the Gryffindors, grew used to seeing the excitable wizard in any corner of the grounds at any given time. If he was in a good mood, he might give a practical demonstration of a spell that they were having trouble with. If he was in a bad mood—which was rare for him, but not unheard of—he might team up with Peeves and take it out on the faculty.

For Sirius, hiding out at Hogwarts was a mystifying mix of nostalgia and new understanding. For all his antics, he'd taken Professor McGonagall's suggestion to heart. _Was _he fit to be a teacher? He didn't know. But he did know that a job here was probably his only chance at gainful employment, considering it was the only place he could justify staying for an extended length of time.

"It's funny to hear you talking like that," Remus said. "You're the last living member of your family that hasn't married into another. You could retire, right now, just with the money in your vault."

Sirius thought very hard about this. But he couldn't deny, much as he wanted to, that there was a real appeal to teaching these kids. Sure, he wasn't the best spell-worker in the world, and he'd never cared much for potion-making or fortune-telling or pretty much any other subject _taught _at Hogwarts…but Muggle Studies? Sure, it was a waste of space _now. _But…

There was…potential.

"I think I have some reading to do."

People often made the mistake of thinking that Sirius's generally hyperactive and often dismissive demeanor meant that he was prone to leaving things unfinished, and couldn't be depended upon to focus on any one thing for long. This was, perhaps more than anything else, the main reason most people were concerned when they found out that he'd been placed in charge of a child. But Sirius could focus much better than most people, when the situation warranted it. More than that, he took the advice and concerns of his elders—those he respected, at least—seriously.

So it was that once his old head of house planted the idea in his head that teaching was a viable option for him, Sirius spent a copious amount of time in the library. He took out any book pertaining to Muggles that he could find, and was dismayed to find that they were—for the most part—useless. Oh, sure, a fair amount of them had a lot of good, solid, surprisingly accurate information. That wasn't the problem.

The problem was that wizarding superiority dripped from every page. He could practically _smell _it. The old-fashioned propaganda that had permeated through every magic-using mind for centuries. If the subject at hand was a magical creature, the author waxed poetic on "having to force unsuspecting Muggles out of the area, for their own safety."

Which, in the end, was a diplomatic way of saying, "We have to force them to keep their stupid noses out of business that doesn't concern them." Never mind that human beings, magical or otherwise, were perhaps the most adaptable species on the planet, and if they'd just been permitted to _see _dragons and boggarts or pretty much any other "dangerous creature," they'd have been able to figure out a way to keep _themselves _safe by now, instead of having to rely on world-weary, snobbish magical martyrs.

"Don't you think you're being a bit harsh?" Remus asked, one day when Sirius had asked for him to take Harry out to the lake or something, because he was growing too restless and wasn't interested in hearing his godfather's sermons, and had begun to occupy himself by removing pages out of various books and placing them in a different order. "Certainly, Muggle relations isn't a perfect science, but…I don't think there's quite as much spite in it as you seem to think."

"If it's done with good intentions, that only makes it worse," Sirius muttered, lunging across a table to stop Harry from toppling onto the floor. Remus walked over and picked him up, using a kerchief to wipe a smudge of ink from his face. "This is…a hobby of mine, Remus. I've been doing it since I was fourteen. I'd spend my holidays wandering around 'Muggle settlements,' studying. Observing. All that academic garbage nobody thought I bothered to do at school. I learned how to blend in. This?" Sirius gestured to his clothes: faded denim jeans, black motorcycle boots, a black shirt and a leather trench coat. "I'd fit right into any Muggle gathering with this. Whether as a native or a tourist, nobody would bat an eyelash at these clothes unless I showed up to a funeral with them. How many witches or wizards you know that can _actually _pass themselves off as Muggles in public?"

Remus frowned. "Very few, if any."

"Exactly. And that's just the tip of the iceberg." Sirius pointed to a book he was perusing. "Listen to this: 'It is an apparently common occurrence for Muggles from the United States of America to treat Muggles from other countries with disdain. They seem to think that their lifestyle is inherently superior to that of other Muggles, and are mystified to realize that other settlements might see things differently.'"

Remus chuckled. "Mm," he offered.

"Oh, those _American _Muggles, look how arrogant they are. Imagine the nerve! Thinking that their lifestyle is superior to others! Idiots. I've read full dissertations on why Muggles are too mentally deficient to practice magic. About how we're a superior strain, a step up the evolutionary chain. A different species, even. This has to stop. 'Why do Muggles use electricity? Why do they light campfires? Why do they sleep in tents with only one room?' These people conveniently forget that we used to be just like them. We used to do everything exactly like they did. Just so happens, one day we figured out that we could do things they couldn't, and we ran with it."

"I agree with you," Remus said, "but I think you might be jumping in a bit too deep, here. You're becoming a crusader. I think you might do well with a break. Come with me. There's a Quidditch match this afternoon. Ravenclaw versus Slytherin."

Something sparked in Sirius's eyes. He smirked devilishly. "Harry," he said, "want to see people fly?"

Harry's eyes went round. "Fly? _Real _fly?"

"Real fly. On real brooms. High up in the sky."

"Go! We go now!"

Sirius laughed, set his books in a stack on the table, and stood up. "Let's go, then."

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>The last time Sirius had seen Quidditch was during his seventh year at school.<p>

That was probably why he was so enthralled with the game. True, the students couldn't match up to the professional leagues, and it certainly wasn't the _best_ match he'd ever seen. He would have much preferred to watch the Gryffindor team taking on his old rivals. But none of that mattered, once the players kicked off of the ground.

Godson and godfather wore equally awestruck expressions as the commentary started. Remus, who was less enthralled with the sport—sacrilege!—took to surveying the crowd. He wasn't sure what it was that he was looking for; he supposed he was paranoid. But there was something in the back of the young werewolf's mind that kept tickling him, telling him that there was a threat…somewhere.

Eventually, Remus grew too restless to sit still. Taking advantage to the fact that Sirius was far too busy introducing Harry to the game to notice anything amiss, he stood up and slowly made his way out of the stands, then off of the field, and eventually into the castle.

He had no destination in mind; only the understanding that he didn't want to stay in one place. He kept wandering, and wandering, long after the game had ended; he ascended an untold number of staircases; he visited a myriad of portraits that happened to recognize him.

"Trouble, Remus?"

He was too used to his old Headmaster showing up in six places at once to be surprised. Remus turned and found Albus Dumbledore watching him, serene and calculated, that familiar mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"Headmaster," Remus offered, bowing his head.

"You look concerned. Worried. Has something happened?"

"No," Remus admitted. "I think that might be the problem. Not that I don't appreciate your offer for us to stay here—" it hadn't been an offer, so much as an order "—but I suppose I've spent so long looking over my shoulder that I…can't help but feel nervous when things are in order like this. I think Sirius has the same problem."

"And yet Sirius has managed to find a way to focus his energies," Dumbledore said. "Perhaps you simply need to find yours. Tell me, Remus, what would you have done, if all this…business hadn't come up? If," here the old wizard chuckled merrily, "you hadn't become a foster parent alongside your friend."

"In all honesty, sir, I don't know."

Dumbledore gestured for Remus to walk with him; Remus did so. "An all too common problem for young wizards like yourself, fresh out of school. Your preferred subject in school was Defense against the Dark Arts, was it not?"

"Yes, sir." Remus nodded. "And Care of Magical Creatures."

"Yes, yes, indeed. Have you considered pursuing any particular…opportunities, considering these interests? After all, Harry won't be a toddler forever. He won't always need his beloved uncles watching over him."

"I suppose the…ah…conflict with Lord Voldemort put a halt on my prospects," Remus said. "Not to mention…ahem, certain laws. I can't hide my true nature from everyone, Headmaster. I'll be lucky if I manage to keep a job longer than a few weeks. I can explain away one disappearance. Maybe even two. But…eventually, people would find out."

Dumbledore's brow creased thoughtfully. "Yes…yes, I see your point. We'll have to see if there's anything we can dig up. But enough of these uncomfortable matters for now. I believe I have some _good_ news for you. News that will put these restless thoughts out of your mind, at least for a while." He grinned, and Remus realized that he was looking at the twin gargoyles that guarded the Headmaster's Office.

"Professor?"

"It seems that Peter might just recover, after all." Dumbledore reached out and opened the door, gesturing for Remus to enter. "He's made a visit, and he's asking for you."

* * *

><p><strong>Three.<strong>

* * *

><p>It had been so long since Peter Pettigrew had been dumped on the grounds of Hogwarts Castle, left for dead as a message from the Death Eaters; so long since both Remus and Sirius had come to grips with the fact that their old friend would never fully recover, and that he would be taking up permanent residence at St. Mungo's. They made visits to their old friend, both he and Sirius, every once in a long while. But for the most part, Wormtail had left their lives.<p>

To see him, scrunched over in a chair in Dumbledore's office, round-faced and almost healthy, his eyes watery and distant but _sane, _was something Remus wasn't quite prepared to handle. He let out a soft, disbelieving little laugh. "…Peter," he said.

Peter stood. "Remus."

They hugged. It was an awkward embrace, but then Peter had always been awkward. Remus blinked back tears as he stared down at the round little man that he'd thought dead to the world. He sat down, and immediately asked how the old boy was doing. Peter looked much older than his scant couple of decades, and yet there was still something…young, almost fragile about him.

"Better," Peter offered. That seemed to be all that he _would_ offer on the subject.

"I understand that you wished to speak with Remus about something…important?" Dumbledore asked after a lull in the small talk, as he circled his desk and sat behind it. Peter flinched violently, and that fragility was reinforced, such that Remus knew immediately that whatever was on his friend's mind…it wasn't apt to be good news, after all.

"Ah…Professor? Headmaster, sir? I…I would like to…speak with Remus…privately? Please?"

Something dark, something hard, came into Dumbledore's eyes, and the old wizard cleared his throat. "I'm afraid…I can't allow that."

Was it a threat? Remus couldn't quite tell. But he had spent enough time studying the darker parts of people to know that if it _wasn't _a threat, it was close enough where it counted. Peter seemed to sense this, too, because he didn't press. He merely lowered his head, like a man at prayer, and drew in a deep, stuttering breath.

Eventually, he looked back up at Remus.

"…I…I've done something terrible."


	19. The Most Solemn of Promises

_**It's been a long time since I've been able to work on this. I don't know that there's any excuse for me to have lost touch with my update schedule. I started out writing, and posting, one chapter per week. I fully intended to keep this going indefinitely.**_

_** The problem with my writing schedule is that it's rather hectic; I have eight projects going on right now. I'm working on finishing up two of them, but aside from these projects, I also have a great number of other obligations. I don't mean to make excuses; I only mean to say that it's a tenuous tightrope, and when pretty much anything throws a wrench into the works, writing these stories becomes immensely difficult.**_

_** I have spent the past couple of weeks in and out of the hospital; a family member has recently been diagnosed with cancer. A very close family member. It's been difficult for me to focus lately, and those chapters that I have put up recently have been backlogs and edits. Actually writing out new content has been frustrating. I feel like I've finally gotten back in touch with my creative spark.**_

_** This chapter is somewhat short, but that's more due to the style of the chapter than anything else. So, all that said, let us begin.**_

_** I hope you enjoy this installment.**_

* * *

><p><em>I'm writing this down because I don't trust myself to speak.<em>

_ The way I hear it, Peter, you've already spoken to Remus, and you want to talk to me. He says you want to set things straight. To tell me what happened that night. To explain. I'm afraid, considering everything that's been going on lately, that I'm not entirely interested in hearing any explanations._

_ Understand something, Peter. We trusted you with something vital. We all believed that you would be strong enough, and brave enough, to handle this mantle. We gave you a chance to prove yourself not as a Gryffindor, but as a friend. You failed. And don't consider that an attack from me, because it's not. I failed, too. And Remus failed. And Dumbledore, and the Order of the Phoenix, and the entire bloody "Magical Community."_

_ James Potter and Lily Evans were a pair of the best of us. The best damn witch and wizard I ever had the blessing to meet. And I used to think myself on a level with them. I used to be arrogant enough to think I could stand alongside them and call myself their peer._

_ I was wrong. And the night you want to talk to me about…that just proves the point._

_ I know that there was a reason, something behind why you broke your promise. Why the magic failed, and why James and Lily were killed. I know that you've been through hell, and that nobody deserves what you got. But you know what? Nobody deserves what James and Lily got, either. Nobody deserves what happened to Frank and Alice, or any of the Dark Lord's victims. We've all been put through the wood-chipper by this war, and I'm sorry to say that my sympathy for you, and your desire to explain yourself to me, is practically nonexistent._

_ Harry Potter is four years old now. Do you realize that? It's been three years since they died. Three years since you made a lick of sense whenever you worked your lips and tongue into speech. We've all been doing our best to move forward since the Dark Lord's "death," and I don't feel like drudging up those memories again. Just writing this out is enough reminiscence for me. If you feel like you need to tell me what you feel, to tell me what happened, in order to move forward yourself, go ahead and write it down in a letter. You can even go ahead and send it to me._

_ I won't read it._

_ I don't expect you to understand why I'm being so harsh about everything. I don't expect you to forgive me, either. I understand I'm being nothing short of a colossal prat, but I also have no intention of doing anything about it. It was my idea to pull a fast one on the Death Eaters; my idea to put you into the line of fire. I failed you, and you turned around and failed me._

_ James and Lily paid the price for that._

_ This doesn't mean I've burned a bridge or anything like that. I'll still talk to you; I'll still stand by you, and I'll still be a friend to you. I'm no turncoat, and I have no intention of abandoning you. I'm simply writing this so that you understand I absolutely refuse to talk about this. I'm writing this so that you know things aren't ever going to be the same between us. This event has shown me the measure of you, and has clarified the expectations I can reasonably have of you. You are not the man I hoped you were. You are the man I feared you were._

_ If you feel hurt by these things, then I believe there might still be hope for you. If this bothers you, being told these things in such a callous and—some might say—heartless fashion by a friend, then there's still potential for you to become the friend that James and Lily deserved. I still believe, even after all these years, that the same potential exists in me. I look in the mirror and laugh at the folly of thinking that, but I still do. It's why I'm doing what I'm doing. It's why I'm closing the door on our past. I will never forget the Potters. I will never allow their son to forget them. But I will never allow him to see them as victims. I will tell him of their heroism, of their actions, of their beliefs and their convictions. I will teach him what they would have taught him. I will teach him to honor them._

_ He will never think of them as corpses lying in a broken house._

_ And if I have anything to say about it, from now on neither will I._

_ Some part of me wonders why I'm being so wordy about this. Theatrical. Some part of me wonders why I don't just say "no" and be done with it. But there's another part of me that insists I need to lay this all out, so that you understand the gravity of your seemingly innocuous request to clear the air._

_ Remus would say I'm sulking. Remus would say I'm being a hypocrite._

_ Maybe I am. I can't be trusted to analyze my own psychology. It doesn't really matter to me._

_ I suppose it comes down to this: you know that they named me Harry's godfather. You know that they entrusted him to me, should the worst happen to them. Remus and I have been taking care of him these past years, raising him as best we can; but Remus has made it abundantly clear that he is simply assisting me. The final decision always comes back to me. It is my job, my calling if you like, to make sure Harry has the best shot at a life worth living._

_ I am, sad and sorry as it might seem to anyone looking in, a father now. I can't afford to be James's friend. Lily's friend. I can't be a part of their family anymore. I have to be Harry's. The only living relatives he has, people who actually share his blood, are Lily's sister and nephew. He's never met them. Maybe he will, someday, when he's old enough to make the decision himself and I no longer hold sway. In any case, it's my job to build a new family for him._

_ That's why I'm taking this so seriously. So dourly._

_ If you wish to honor the memory of your friends, then I invite you to be a part of their final legacy. I invite you to be a part of Harry's life, and help old Moony and Padfoot from making total idiots out of themselves about it._

_ But that comes to the last thing I'm going to tell you, the last thing you need to know._

_ I take this job of mine immeasurably seriously. It is the most vital task I've ever been given, and the closest thing to noble I've ever done. I pride myself on the fact that Harry is happy, healthy, and he's fast on his way to becoming the sort of wizard that James and Lily would have been proud to call their own._

_ I know that you are afraid. I know that the Death Eaters fed on that fear, and that fear ultimately led to the state you are in. I understand that you never really had a chance to face that fear. You could probably blame us for that. We did you a disservice, protecting you all the time like we did. Treating you like a lesser member of our little gang. We used you, and tried to tell ourselves that we made up for it by sticking up for you._

_ It was a mistake, and I'm sorry about that. But it doesn't change what you've become. So again, I understand that you often fall prey to your fears, and that you can be manipulated. I'm sure, despite the way you were treated, that the Death Eaters may well try to take you back. They might come to you, and they might threaten you into submission. They might try to use you to revive Voldemort, and descend our community into a new _age _of fear, and you might be duped into thinking that will make things better in the long run for you. After all, if everyone is cowering, who's going to notice little old you?_

_ I want you to know that I will._

_ If you let weakness take you again, the way that you let it take you on the first night of November, three years ago…if you allow yourself to be manipulated, if you have any part in putting the slightest shadow across my son's face…if you bring back the faintest memory of the terror and loss he felt that night…_

_ Run._

_ Run as fast as your legs can carry you, and do not look back, because I swear to you I will be there. I will find you. I tell you this as a friend, so that you understand the gravity of my mission. We all know that the Death Eaters will be trying to revive their master, probably they already are. If they try to hook you into their games, and you allow yourself to be hooked…_

_ I will kill you with my own hands. No spells, no transformations. No warning._

_ I will not let you soil what they fought for._

_ And you will never, in all the years you could ever hope to live, be able to stop me._


	20. Professor Black

_**In other recent updates to my other projects, I've mentioned that one reason certain projects have been on the backburner, this one among them, is because I've been tackling my last semester at university. I've since graduated, with a Bachelor's Degree in English, and am currently using my summer working on various projects of my own.**_

_**And so, I came back to this story, wondering where to go. See, I've come to a recent understanding about my own writing style, and one of the problems is that I usually don't have the entire story plotted out or even roughly outlined when I start.**_

_**This is no exception.**_

_**I spent a lot of time working on this story before finally starting to post it, but even so, I'm still not quite sure what I'm doing here. Honestly, I'm just having a bit of fun in this universe I've come to love, and using one of my favorite fictional devices—time travel—to spice things up.**_

_**This chapter is the beginning of Part 4. Which means we'll be jumping ahead a few more years. That's one thing I knew was going to happen when I started: I wasn't going to go straight through Harry's entire life story, or Sirius's, or anyone else's.**_

_**The idea was to watch these people grow.**_

_**So, we jump ahead now to about 1989, a couple of years before Harry starts school, and a very important time in Sirius's newfound career aspirations.**_

_**Let's begin.**_

* * *

><p><strong>One.<strong>

* * *

><p>"You're obviously not having much luck with that tie, Uncle Padfoot. Why don't you just toss it out?"<p>

Sirius Black was not one to be cowed by strips of ostentatious cloth. He ripped a finger through his tie's lopsided half-knot and started over. "And what would _you _know about it, brat? The most formal thing you've ever worn is a Quidditch jersey."

Harry Potter was not one to let people get the last word. He said, "It's a uniform. That's plenty formal."

"It's only a uniform if you're _on the team," _Sirius snapped back. Finally managing to make his knot look presentable, he loosened it and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. "And before you ask, the reason I'm not using magic to do this is one, I'm not a quitter. And two, it defeats the entire purpose of my subject."

"You're not a professor yet," Harry replied idly. "It's not your subject 'til you're hired, is it?"

Sirius sent a suspicious glare over his shoulder at his godson. "Well, you're just a little ray of glittery sunshine trapped in a fairy's hope chest, aren't you? Go find something productive to ignore."

Harry tilted his head to the side, stuck out his tongue, and left the room.

Sirius pointed threateningly at the mirror in front of him, snide little bastard that it was. "If this weren't _regulation, _I'd leave the damn tie at home. Put it in a corner, let it think about what it's done."

Remus Lupin, like the slippery shadow he'd been forced to become, didn't enter the room; he just _appeared._ His scarred face was older now, and more scarred, but somehow that only drew attention to the sparkle in his eye. He grinned, and Sirius wondered if his friend's teeth were always that sharp. "Would you like me to help with that?" he asked, gesturing to Sirius's neck.

"No, _Mother, _I'll do just fine like this." Sirius grabbed his long leather coat from where it hung on the back of a chair. "Let's face it, Moony. I'm barely scratching thirty. I can't pull off the whole 'stern professor' look. All I'll end up doing is making myself look like a joke."

"Some of the older set would say you already look like a joke," Remus noted. "The least you could do is be a _respectable_ one."

Sirius gestured dismissively. "Kids see through tricks better than adults do. If I come prancing into the classroom trying to exert authority with my clothes, they'll immediately start thinking I don't have a bloody clue what I'm talking about. Bad enough _I _know I don't know what I'm doing. I don't need to clue _them _in."

Remus chuckled. "I suppose." He gestured. "But you know, this red-and-gold business clashes rather badly with this brooding black persona you seem to be aiming for."

Sirius sneered at his friend without looking at him. "My name's _Black, _Remus. What am I going to wear? White? Go make sure Harry isn't fraternizing with the damn house elf again."

Remus shook his head, then let his eyes roam about the room. "You've been in a sad state ever since we first stepped into this place," he said. "If you hate this house so much, why are we here?"

"Because it's the only house in Britain defensible enough to take in favor of the damn school, that's why," Sirius all but snarled. "And anyway, it's about time Harry had a _home. _This cesspool is mine, you know. Which makes it his inheritance."

Remus frowned, and fell into step with Sirius as the last Black left his bedchamber and stalked down the long, heavy hallway toward the kitchen. "It won't do much good for Harry to have a home if he knows you hate it, Sirius. Or haven't you noticed that he pays an inordinate amount of attention to the things you like and dislike? If you keep stomping around the place like it's a summer home for Dementors, the only thing he's going to do when he inherits it is burn it to the ground."

Sirius manufactured a wide grin and started skipping.

Remus sighed, shook his head, and smiled helplessly.

* * *

><p><strong>Two.<strong>

* * *

><p>"Kreacher is trying to clean . . . what's the little brat doing . . . ?"<p>

"Harry is following you," the boy replied matter-of-factly, slinking along behind the old house elf like a highly ineffective stalker. "Harry doesn't know why you keep talking about yourself like that. It's kind of weird."

"Harry might do well to stop bothering Kreacher and eat breakfast," Remus remarked dryly, looking particularly stern in contrast to the way Sirius came bouncing into the room, trumpeting a theme song for his own entrance. "And Sirius could stand to eat, too. Honestly, when did I become the mother in this family?"

Sirius blinked. "When did you think you _weren't?" _He smirked. He glanced at Harry. "Third person. He's talking about himself in the third person."

Remus rolled his eyes and turned away toward the sink. "You'll be the death of me, _Professor_. I've recently been struck with the ability to see into the future." He glared pointedly over his shoulder at Sirius. "You will be _terribly _rude at my funeral. Honestly, man, have you no shame?"

"I could if you _wanted _me to." Sirius winked, just slowly enough to be inappropriate. To which Remus rolled his eyes again, this time accompanying the gesture with an inarticulate moan of disgust that might have been in response to his friend, but could just as well have been in response to . . . whatever it was that he found nesting in the sink.

Harry plopped himself down on the floor and looked around himself, seeming to calculate something. He leaned in close to the elf. "You've been taking care of this house for a long time, huh?" he asked Kreacher, who was obviously nonplussed at the prospect of having a conversation. "I'm not sure if Uncle Remus could do as good a job as _you. _Maybe you could show him how it's done. I bet he wants to learn from a real master."

Kreacher grumbled wordlessly, but Remus wondered if he didn't spy just the slightest straightening of the old elf's back. He glanced at Sirius. "I think Harry is unraveling your experiment. You're never going to know how long it takes to drive a house elf into a rage palpable enough to make him use his magic on you, if your own godson keeps making him feel good about himself."

Sirius shrugged. "I know. I know. What can I do? He seems to _like _the old thing. You be careful around that bat, Harry. You hear me? Only my mother knew for sure how many communicable diseases are living in Kreacher's bloated meat-sack."

Harry gave a snide little look to his godfather in return for the slight.

The three of them had been living in 12 Grimmauld Place for about a month now, ever since Sirius's new position as Adjutant Professor of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts had become a sure thing. "I am _not _living in the castle so long as I'm working there," Sirius had said. "Puts a bad taste in my mouth, and anyway, I think Snape lives at the castle. And even if I'm wrong, Trelawney lives at the castle, and in case you haven't noticed, she's been falling all over herself to 'crystal-gaze' for me ever since . . . well, _ever."_

"Are you sure that's a problem?" Remus asked, rolling up his sleeves with the stern resignation of a soldier wading into a swamp. "Word 'round says she's as much of a seer as I am. I doubt she'd see much of anything."

"Dumbledore keeps her hired for a reason," Sirius said. "What that reason _is, _is a question for the ages. Could be she's a real seer. Could be she's just a seriously enthusiastic amateur with just enough understanding to maybe, _maybe, _sharpen one of her students into a _real _seer. Could be it's a joke. I don't pretend to know. But I also don't want to run the risk."

"Afraid of what you'll see?" Remus asked.

"No. Just don't want to be _influenced. _I do pretty well with instinct and intuition, thanks. I don't need to doubt myself." And with this bit of age-old wisdom, tempered slightly by the fact that real fear _did, _in fact, seem to be creeping up in the corners of his dark eyes, Sirius grabbed a bag from where he'd apparently sloughed it in a corner the night before, slung it over one shoulder, and said, "I'm off to corrupt today's youth—_teach. _Teach."

Remus chuckled. Harry saluted. Kreacher grumbled.

Sirius left.

* * *

><p><strong>Three.<strong>

* * *

><p>"All I'm saying is, the difference between you and me is—well, aside from the fact that I'm arrogant and charismatic, whereas you're just arrogant—I wash my hair every once in a while."<p>

Severus Snape was already an expert on deadpan, offensively neutral facial expressions as a student; now, he was a virtuoso. He stared at his old enemy like he was actively looking through him at a perpetually insignificant wall, so boring that it was sentient.

"Fascinating."

"No, no, what I mean is . . . okay, let's say we're both at a ball. They still have those here, right? Would you dress up for it? Get all pretty? Or would you just walk into the Great Hall in the same robes you wore for classes, and glare everybody into submission? Take some _pride _in yourself, Sev!"

"Don't . . . call me that."

Sirius grinned cheekily. "Fine, fine. Let's be serious for a moment." He waited, chuckled at his own joke when he didn't get a response from his unlikely companion, and went on: "You've been in on this whole teaching business for a while longer than I have. I guess that makes you my elder, or something. So fill me in . . . what sorts of boundaries should I worry about? Like, if a student is irritating, can I just make them leave? Take points off their house? Make them do a funny dance?"

"Dumbledore has a rather _laissez-faire _attitude," Snape replied slowly, sounding like the words were being drawn out of him.

"Ooh. French, is it?" Sirius chuckled. "Listen to you, bringing Muggle economic theory into casual conversation. How _sophisticated."_

Snape rolled his eyes. "You can do largely what you like, under Quirell's supervision."

"Mm. Noted. So _he _sets my limits. And the ministry?"

Snape raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Unless you plan on incorporating mass-scale explosions into your lesson plans, Black, I doubt the ministry will inject themselves into your . . . business."

"So there _are _limits." Sirius nodded studiously. "I see."

Snape sighed. It seemed to be his natural response to anything Sirius said.

Sirius drew in a deep breath, steadied himself. ". . . Severus."

Snape went rigid.

"Harry starts school in a couple years," Sirius said. "He won't be taking my class until thirteen at the earliest, but he'll be in yours from day one. And yours is probably . . . you know. More _vital _than mine, in a practical sense. Right? So, um . . . you know. Now that we're both teaching. I wanted to talk to you about that."

Snape crossed his arms. "You've yet to lead a single lesson, Black. Your position is in no way guaranteed."

"I know. I know that." Sirius's face screwed up as he actively fought back his natural instinct to punch the smug superiority right off his old rival's face. Something, that same intuition that had guided him for years now, was telling him to just man up and get it over with. "But . . . listen. I know we've had rather explosive issues with each other. Stemming from back when we were on the other side of the teacher's desk. I just . . . want to make sure we're on the same page, here. For Harry's sake, if no one else's."

Snape's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"My guess," Sirius said, "is that Harry's going to be a Gryffindor. He was born to Gryffindors, raised by Gryffindors. With you being head of Slytherin and all, well, I'm sure there's going to be some . . . static. I just wanted to—you know." Sirius growled and shook his head, looking like the dog he was known for. "Look. If there's any residual hatred going on here, take it out on me. Okay? Not him. He's going to have a hard enough time getting used to people fawning over him for being famous."

Snape blinked. ". . . What?"

"You think I haven't noticed?" Sirius asked. "You think I don't know? Harry Potter is a dead ringer for his father. Except right here," he pointed to his own eyes, "in what the old poets call the window to the soul. I know how you felt about Lily. Or, I have an idea. I may be a flippant, arrogant, largely indecent prat, but I'm not stupid. Whenever I look at that boy, I get a lump in my throat. I'm sure you're going to take one look at him and feel an indescribably strong urge to knock his teeth out. I'm asking you, both for his sake and for his mother's, don't. Take it out on me."

It had been a long time since that _other _part of him, that sort of spiritual intuition, had guided Sirius quite so strongly, and for such a length of time. He felt like this entire conversation—or sermon—wasn't his own; he was merely an observer.

". . . Do I look desperate enough for self-esteem that I would vent an old grudge on a child?"

"You want my honest answer?" Sirius popped off. "Yes. You were desperate enough for self-esteem to join Voldemort, weren't you?" Snape flinched violently. "I remember how we used to treat you, Severus. Hell, I still dream about it sometimes. And I'd probably apologize, except for how you decided to get back at us. Yes. I made your life hell. I admit it. And I _liked _it. You helped the monster that killed my best friends and made their only son an orphan. I think we're even. Don't you? Just . . . play nice with my kid, all right?"

Snape didn't have a chance to reply, before Sirius realized the time and sped off toward Quirinus Quirrell's classroom.

* * *

><p><strong>Four.<strong>

* * *

><p>Every eye was drawn toward Sirius, simply because compared to Quirrell's standard black robes, the last Black looked entirely alien in his jeans, boots, button-down shirt and long leather coat. He still looked like a teenager.<p>

His tie hung, conspicuously _untied,_ around his neck.

The students all sat down. Quirrell made his introductions, took attendance, then made an announcement: "Starting this year, we will be joined by Mister Sirius Black, who will be working as my . . . adjutant professor."

Sirius gave a cockeyed salute. Some murmurings and mutterings went on, but Sirius doubted anyone recognized him; plenty of these students probably had heard his family name from time to time, but he thought it had to do with his outfit, more than anything else. Which was the entire idea.

"Professor Black? Any . . . introductory remarks?"

Sirius hopped off the desk where he'd perched himself and said, "Yes. Thank you, Professor Quirrell." He swept his dark eyes over the crowd of young faces. "You've been here at Hogwarts for a while now. You've had a chance to . . . absorb the culture. Even those of you that we'd label 'Muggle-born' have a strong idea of what we're about, we witches and wizards. Professor Quirrell here will be teaching you about our perspective on Muggles. Non-magic people. I'm here for a different reason."

He paused here, wondering how best to phrase his mission statement.

He finally decided on: "I'd like all of you who come from a wizarding family to raise your hand." A majority of the students raised their hands. "Most of you probably have preconceived notions about Muggles, and how they behave. Most of those notions probably aren't pleasant. I am here to shatter them. Professor Quirrell is going to give you a wizarding perspective on Muggles. I'm going to give you a _Muggle_ perspective on Muggles. Now, you might ask yourself what right _I _have to be doing that. _I'm _not Muggle-born. In fact, some of you might know that I come from a prominent, pureblood wizarding family. So what do _I _know?"

Sirius began to pace in front of the students, because sitting still had never been one of his stronger attributes.

"Well, that's where you come in," he said. "If, in class, I tell you something, and you think it isn't true . . . find out. Read, observe, research, whatever. Come to me. Tell me what you've found. A teacher's job is to teach you _how _to think, not _what _to think. So feel free to argue with me." Sirius's eyes turned flinty. ". . . But make sure you're thorough. I fully intend to argue back.

Sirius sat back down on the edge of his desk, and gestured grandly to Quirrell.

"The floor is yours, Professor."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Since all we ever see of Professor Quirrell in the series is what he's like after his . . . unfortunate encounters with a certain wizarding supervillain, I wasn't and I'm still not sure how to portray him before that event.<strong>_

_**So he's kind of a neutral presence here. I'll work on it as the story develops. I figure he was always probably rather bookish, quiet, unassuming. It's what made him such an effective agent for eeeeeevil. Right?**_

_**Right.**_


End file.
